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THE SEEKERS 



THE SEEKERS 

by Jessie E, $ampter 

With an introduction by 

Professor Josiah Royce 



VL 



MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
NEW YORK MCMX 



Copyright IQIO by 
Mitchell Kennerley 



CCU280110 






A successful experiment in non-sectarian religion, 
in moral and cesthetic enquiry r , with young people 
in new ways 9 in search of the Meaning of Things. 



THE SEEKERS 

Page 37, Line 2. "And he saw " should read 

" and we saw." 

" 91 y Last line. "I answered" should read 

"She answered. ' 

" 93 \ Line 22. "But a word itself" should 

read " work itself. " 

" 104, Line 15. "A sense of duty " should 

read "a sense of unity. ,: 

" 236, Line 13. " Different from each one' 

should read "Different for. " 

" 266, Line 3. "Operator" should read 

"spectator. " 



THE SEEKERS 

AN INTRODUCTORY. WORD 

BY 

Professor Josiah Royce, Ph.D., LL.D. 

I have been asked by the author to say a word by 
way of introduction to this very interesting record 
of conversations and inquiries. On the whole, I feel 
my word to be superfluous ; for the book speaks for 
itself, and every reader will form hfa own opinion. 
But since the author has asked for my co-operation, I 
gladly offer what little I can. 

I am a teacher of philosophy at a university. For 
the most part my own courses are technical in char- 
acter. Some of my work is with graduate students. 
I am accustomed to discuss controverted opinions 
with people who regard philosophy from a skeptical 
and more or less controversial, and almost always 
highly critical, point of view. Hence, my own first 
impression of the work of the "Seekers" and of the 
leader of their always pleasing inquiries, was mingled 
with a certain wonder as to the possibility of their 



The Seekers 

accomplishing together, as well. as they have done, 
what they undertook. This wonder has changed, as I 
have become better acquainted with them, into a* 
delight that the tact, the caution, the tolerance and , 
the earnestness of the leader, and the skill and docility 
of the pupils, could result in setting before us so 
fine a model of teaching and of learning as here 
appears. The book is one to encourage every lover 
of good things, and everyone who wants to see how 
the minds of young people in this country, and living 
under good conditions, can be turned toward great 
questions in such a way as to encourage sincerity, 
thoughtfulness and the beginnings of true wisdom. 

In what little I have to say of this book I ought 
of course to abstract altogether from such agreement 
as I indeed feel with the form of Idealism which 
Miss Sampter represents. The question put to me is 
the question whether the method of procedure here 
adopted is one that promises to be genuinely useful 
as an initiation of young people into the study of 
deeper questions. I answer that the author seems to 
have made out her case, and to have proved her 
faith in her method by her work. The age and 
the previous training of the "Seekers" — as they are 
sketched in the author's preliminary statement — once 
presupposed, this mode of procedure could only prove 
a help to them. The methods used are an important 
beginning. If any of the "Seekers" go on to a more 
advanced study of philosophy, in college or elsewhere, 

they ought to prove apt learners. If they simply 

vi 



An Introductory Word 

turn to life as their further teacher, they should be 
ready to profit by some of its deepest lessons better 
than they could otherwise have done. If, upon fur- 
ther inquiry, they incline to other opinions about 
the world and about life than the ones they have 
emphasized, they will still always remain more 
tolerant of the varieties of opinion, and more hope- 
ful of the right and the power of the human mind to 
grapple with grave issues, than they would otherwise 
have been. These hours of "seeking" will have 
opened their eyes to values which are indeed perma- 
nent, whatever will be the true solution of the prob- 
lems of philosophy; and the memory of these hours 
will prove henceforth a safeguard against cynicism 
when they doubt, and against intolerance and inhu- 
manity when they believe. And, whatever the truth 
may be, about God, or about the world, or about life, 
cynicism in doubt, and intolerance and inhumanity in 
belief, are great evils, against which the young people 
of our time need to be guarded quite as much as men 
needed to be guarded against such evils in the days 
either of the Sophists or of the Inquisitors. For, in 
one guise or another, speaking the language of old or 
of new faith or unfaith, Sophists and Inquisitors we 
have always with us, either corrupting or oppress- 
ing the youth. The methods of our author, as set 
forth in this book, make for liberty together with 
seriousness, for self-expression together with rever- 
ence, for thoughtfulness together with a sense of 
deeper values. And in so far the book is a success as 

vii 



The Seekers 

a model of the way in which our new problems must 

be met when we have to deal with the young. 

If one undertakes to consider such topics with a 

class as youthful and at the same time as enlightened 

as the "Seekers," the dilemma is obvious. One must 

indeed be more or less dogmatic in tone about at 

least some central interest; one must make use of the 

persuasive power of a teacher's personal influence ; or 

else one will lead to no definite results. On the other 

hand, if one propounds one's dogmas merely as the 

traditional teacher of religion has always done by 

saying: "This is our faith. This is what you should 

believe," — one is then in no case teaching philosophy, 

and one is hardly helping the young people to "seek." 

Moreover, such mere dogmas, addressed to young 

people in whom the period of "enlightenment" has 

already begun, will tend to awaken in their minds new 

doubts and objections, rather than to convey to them 

the positive truth, even if one's own dogmas happen 

to be true. Hence arises a problem of instruction 

which cannot be solved in the case of these "Seekers" 

as we teachers of philosophy often try nowadays to 

solve our analogous problems in dealing with older 

pupils in college. Some of us meet our own problems 

with the older students by directly disclaiming all 

authority to control their convictions, by asking them 

to become as self-critical and independent as they 

can, and by stating our own opinions with the intent 

not to make disciples, but to enable our students to 

form their own personal judgments through the very 

viii 



An Introductory Word 

sympathy with our efforts to be reflective, self -critical 
and constructive. Thus we do not try to convey a 
faith so much as to help our students to their own 
spiritual independence. 

In strong opposition to our mode of procedure, 
many popular teachers of this or that form of "New 
Thought" have been trying of late to annul modern 
doubts, and to lead men to a higher spiritual insight 
by means of certain "intuitions," for the sake of which 
skeptical inquiry, stern criticism, elaborate reflection 
must be laid aside; so that the kindly disposed 
learner, even if he indeed is not to be a believer in 
certain old-fashioned creeds, still looks to his teacher 
for a means of quieting his doubts, and so that what 
is supposed to be "philosophy" becomes a sort of 
"anesthetic revelation," with the teacher as the assist- 
ant who administers the anesthetic whereby the pupil 
is prepared for the surgery of life. 

Now, whatever may be the use of such "New 
Thought" for invalid wrecks, or even for more or 
less world-weary lovers of the good, whom sad experi- 
ence has turned away from their earlier religious 
creeds, and who need to be restored to their courage 
in facing reality; — still, these anesthetic methods of 
the lovers of the "silence" and of the vague light, 
are not suited to the best needs of the enlightened 
young people, such as these "Seekers" who are about 
to begin life, who know their little fragments of 
science, of socialism, and of modern problems, and 

who want unity with clearness. Nor are such young 

ix 



The Seekers 

people at just this age yet ready for our more tech- 
nical academic procedure. Shall they be left then 
unguided, until their interest in unifying life has been 
lost in the confusion and variety of their increasing 
knowledge, until their youthful idealism has been sad- 
dened and perhaps soiled by the world, and until 
their criticism of life has become at once tragic and 
cynical ? 

Miss Sampter has undertaken to answer these 
questions by dealing with the need of just such people. 
She does so with a genuine clearness of vision, with 
a careful touch that helps and with a spirit which 
prepares them to meet their problems, and not to lose 
unity by reason of the complexities of their situation. 
She dogmatizes a little, to be sure; and in fact she 
repeats some of her dogmas not infrequently, without 
giving any elaborate reasons for these dogmas. They 
are the dogmas of a metaphysical idealism which I 
myself in the main accept, but which no direct intui- 
tion can very adequately justify, while their technical 
justification could not possibly be discussed at length 
in the meetings of the "Seekers." On the other 
hand, our author is no mere partisan of intuition. 
Her dogmas are stated in forms that not only win her 
"plastic youth" to agreement, but challenge them to 
a reflection which ere long, in some of them, will 
lead to new interpretations, to doubts, and so, in time, 
to a higher insight than they at first gain. She sets 
her pupils to thinking as well as to receiving; they 
become inquirers rather than passive recipients of 



An Introductory Word 

an intuition. They are thus prepared for a variety 
of future religious and philosophical experiences, and 
yet they are kept in touch with that love and hope of 
unity which alone can justify the existence of our very 
doubts, of our philosophical disputes, and of our 
modern complications of life. 

As a means of avoiding both of the opposing 
extremes sketched in the foregoing account of the 
ways of teaching philosophical opinions, as a via 
media in the work of beginning the philosophical 
instruction of young people, as a preparation for 
more critical study, as a conservation of some of the 
best in the spirit of faith without an undue appeal 
to mere intuition, and as a model of what can be done 
to awaken a very notable type of young inquirers such 
as our modern training tends to produce in the homes 
of very many of us — this book is, in my opinion, to 
be very heartily commended. 

The educational problem with which it deals con- 
cerns meanwhile a very deep and intensely practical 
interest of our American civilization. We cannot 
retain the unity of our national consciousness unless 
we can keep, even in the midst of all the complications 
and doubts of the modern world, our sense of the 
great common values of the spiritual world. With- 
out philosophy, our nation can therefore never come 
to its own. Philosophy does not mean the acceptance 
of any mere authority. And it will not lead us to 
universal agreement about any one form of creed. 
But it will teach us to unite freedom, tolerance, in- 

xi 



The Seekers 

6ight, and spirituality. Without these, of what worth 
would be mere bulk and mere wealth to our nation ? 
I welcome this book then because our author has con- 
tributed to one of the most important of the tasks of 
our time — the task of helping our nation to regain 
the now much confused and endangered consciousness 
of its own unity. 

JOSIAH ROYCE 

Harvard University, August 3, 19 10. 



xii 



THE SEEKERS 



THE BEGINNING 



This is a live book. It was lived first, and written 
only afterwards. So it can lay no claim to the title 
of art, which is experience remoulded in the cast of 
individual genius; for this was not at all moulded, 
save as the written word reshapes the spoken. It is 
a philosophic adventure, an experiment, written down 
by one, but lived by seven. 

Why did I write it down? may be asked. Every 
new book needs an excuse for being. I wrote it down 
because it seemed an answer, perhaps a partial, but 
still a living answer, to two questions that cry aloud* 

As I look about me, and observe the doings and 
thoughts of men and women in this active time, I 
notice two problems, related one to the other, and 
wanting but one solution. 

First of these is a lack of common purpose in the 
works of life. Many religions are there, many creeds 
and anti-creeds, many purposes, from petty, selfish 
gain to reforms in government and social service. 
Scientist, politician, artist, philanthropist and minis- 

1 



2 The Seekers 

ter go each toward a partial goal, in opposition to 
one another, with no one purpose, no end beyond all 
lesser ends, no larger patriotism. Morals are either 
very stiff or very lax, without any conscious reason 
for either their stiffness or their laxity. The only 
reason for moral conviction, the only purpose that 
could unite all purposes, the only patriotism to hold 
all men together and give the union needful for great 
and strong achievement, is a common faith in the 
goal and meaning of life. 

The second problem is a more conscious one, the 
problem of moral and religious education for our 
children. For ourselves — so think many among us — 
we do not need. a philosophy or religion; we are good 
enough without having any reason for being good. 
But we think our children need some instruction and 
guidance, something to satisfy the blessed cravings 
and doubts that we have long since killed within our- 
selves. For barely one among us fails to remember 
his fifteen-year-old questionings and strivings, and his 
defeat, when at last he decided to think no more, 
because his problem was insoluble. But even these 
who are so well contented with their own hard-won 
torpor want something better for their children. The 
question is asked again and again: "Shall we teach 
our children what we do not believe? And can we 
teach them what we do believe?" 

In this book I attempt to solve both problems at 
once, and through the children to speak to their 
parents. For many who will not admit the least in- 



The Beginning 3 

terest in the vital questions that have created every 
religion and philosophy throughout time, still are 
interested and will listen when the problem touches 
their own children. And only through the creative, 
open and daring mind of youth, not yet either stif- 
fened or broken, can the spirit of a larger and a 
richer faith give new inspiration. 

I am convinced that to-day all thoughtful men be- 
lieve the same, where vital questions arise, and that 
each man sees a different angle of the same truth, 
which grows and grows in our vision, with the grow- 
ing knowledge of man. All our ministers with their 
different churches, and our congregations with their 
sectarian prejudices, have at heart a common goal, a 
faith that needs only to be spoken to be believed. 
Let their children draw them together. Find a com- 
mon religion to be taught in the school — where this 
necessity is the present problem of all educators, and 
where so far ethical courses and emasculated Chris- 
tianity have given no solution — and from that larger 
patriotism of a common faith in childhood will spring 
the faith bigger than ethics and philanthropies, big 
enough to include all churches and systems in an 
unseen brotherhood. 

Were I able to carry out this idea in a school, I 
would have classes or clubs, such as the Seekers, for 
all girls and boys of about the third or fourth high- 
school year. Then, for the younger children as well 
as for the older ones, I would have songs and read- 
ings at the assembly, which would suggest or picture 



4 The Seekers 

forth the inmost spirit of our modern faith. These 
songs and readings I would let the older pupils choose 
and discuss in their clubs; and I would leave in their 
hands, as much as possible, the social and spiritual 
regulation of the school life. Faith and action go 
together. Each without the other is barren. 

My purpose in this book is then twofold: to record 
how such clubs and classes work in practice, and 
thereby suggest a method from experience; also to 
give, in such large and perhaps superficial aspect as 
the means necessitate, the main outline of my thought. 
Not mine alone, but yours and every man's. I bring 
no news; but only an old, forgotten story, new and 
strange to our widened knowledge. Accept its large 
intent, if you reject its lesser achievement; admit that 
this is the only possible truth in the light of our 
present knowledge. Though you believe more than 
this, accept at least the Seekers' path as pointing to- 
ward the goal. To these children it gave a way and 
a light; it satisfied a need and answered a question, 
and brought new weapons for the battle of thought 
wherein most of us fail from weariness. For them 
it has already succeeded, whatever its coming fate. 

Unless one sees a glimpse of truth at fifteen, enough 
to recognize it, one is not likely to discern it later, 
through the mist of unformed knowledge. And at 
fifteen one craves this something that can relate and 
shape all thought. So it happened that I organized 
the club of Seekers, composed of very different girls 
and boys, because of this one common need. 



The Beginning 5 

The conditions necessary for membership were 
few. The first condition, the one in its nature in- 
evitable, was that each member should be interested 
and enthusiastic in our quest, a seeker from need and 
desire. Only such would have stayed with us. And 
this, perhaps, was a selective process of extreme rigor. 
Otherwise the conditions of membership were not of 
the sort to put a premium on extraordinary ability. 
They were that the members should be over fourteen, 
and under seventeen, and should have finished their 
elementary school course. I also limited the mem- 
bership in number. Among my acquaintances were 
many more girls who would have wished to join us, 
but no more than the two boys. I explain this not 
by the fact that boys are less interested in these ques- 
tions, but that their interest develops later. If I had 
sought boys of eighteen or nineteen, I could have 
found them easily. At the time, however, I did not 
realize this fact. 

I think that the children were average of their kind. 
The kind, nevertheless, may have carried with it 
some intellectual superiority or precocity, such as the 
effects of environment and urban life. For these 
things, through the chance of acquaintanceship, they 
had in common: they were all bred in New York 
City, in educated families of the upper middle class 
(though not all of well-to-do parents), and all but 
one, Ruth, who is a Christian Scientist, of homes un- 
usually liberal in their religious thought. Therefore 
these children were free from those clogging super- 



6 The Seekers 

stitions and false perspectives which result from early 
training in any symbolic and fixed creed. Take these 
influences for what they were worth. Beyond them 
the children had no special advantage or disadvan- 
tage. 

I say all this as a defence against a possible criti- 
cism: namely, that the children seem, by their com- 
prehension and original ideas, to be far above the 
average boys and girls of the same age. This I 
deny, and for good reasons. Naturally I have meant 
this experiment of a class in religious philosophy for 
adolescent boys and girls to be general in its appli- 
cation. And I believe it to be so. Most grown 
people have forgotten how they felt and thought at 
fifteen, and are apt to underrate the mental processes 
of boys and girls. I myself at that age felt so keenly 
the lack of sympathy in older people that I made a 
point of remembering and writing down certain ex- 
periences. I questioned several friends, and at last 
got admissions from them that they, too, had thought 
in the same way at fifteen. But no doubt they still 
look upon themselves as unique in this respect, for at 
fifteen we all think ourselves exceptions, and no mat- 
ter how commonplace we may be now we are apt 
vaguely to keep that memory. 

Then, too, one must not forget the effect of con- 
scious and unconscious suggestion. I had my plans 
carefully made, and knew exactly in what direction 
I meant to lead our ideas, but the children knew very 
little of this foreplanning, and went of themselves 



The Beginning 7 

where I wished them to go. No doubt suggestion 
blazed trails for them through this wilderness, if it 
did not make a path, and, as my record will prove, 
my questions often stimulated them to answers that 
would not otherwise have been possible. But often 
their answers were wholly unexpected and surprising. 
As our name tells, we are seekers, and I have found, 
at the very least, as much as they. Above all, my 
boundless faith in the young was justified. And my 
critics must admit that they have not this faith them- 
selves, and so could never have put it to the test of 
experience, as I have done. 

The children's papers show better than written 
words of mine exactly what the meetings meant to 
them, and will prove also, I think, their average 
ability. They are printed exactly as written, save 
for corrections in spelling and punctuation, which 
were by no means perfect. 

The conversations were recorded as precisely as 
possible from memory and from notes taken imme- 
diately after the meetings. As any one with experi- 
ence will know, it is impossible to record the broken 
fragments of actual speech without sometimes com- 
bining mere phrases into complete sentences. The 
written is never like the spoken thought. It ap- 
pears like it, which it would not do if it were a precise 
phonographic transcription. 

I have made the children speak "in character," 
using always their own words and their own ideas, 
whatever those might be ; even being careful to record 



8 The Seekers 

characteristic phrases and expressions. And that I 
had succeeded was proved by the children themselves, 
when they heard the manuscript read and recognized 
themselves and each other, to their great amusement. 
Not until all the meetings were over had they any 
idea that I was keeping this record. 

We seven, then, have made this book; and one 
other one, who, though never present at the meet- 
ings, had his large share of influence in them. This 
was my friend and Florence's big brother Arthur — 
so often quoted by her — and quoted by me without 
acknowledgment, especially in the meetings on the 
aesthetic ideal, which would have been impossible with- 
out his help. 

For all lovers of youth and individual thought, for 
all lovers of the quest, we have made this book, as a 
personal recognition of the bond of kinship that binds 
all free seekers, and as an answer to those vital ques- 
tions which all of us must ask together, and answer, 
at least in sympathy. 



THE MEMBERS 

Alfred, my cousin, not quite fifteen years old when 
the club was begun. In his first high school year. 
In appearance, a young Arab chieftain, dark, athletic 
and dignified. His character fulfils the promise: he 
is taciturn, slow to act, independent, serious for his 
age, and with a great thirst for knowledge. A lover 
of nature and the country; a hater of all things petty 
or mean. He entered the club with a good knowledge 
of evolution, and no religious training of any sort. 

Virginia, my cousin, almost sixteen years old. She 
had one year of high school, but as she would not 
study, and drew pictures instead, she was sent to art 
school a year and a half ago, where she has been 
working hard. She has read and re-read many good 
books. Although she is of a blonde, Saxon type, yet 
her hair and eyes are very dark. Light-hearted and 
yet earnest, self-satisfied, always sweet and lovable. 
Bright, interested, original, humorous. She has had 
no definite religious training, but much sound religious 
philosophy at home. 

Florence, a young friend, fifteen years old, but 
much older in appearance. In her third high school 
year. Large and dark, with gray eyes. She is vacil- 
lating, and may turn out to be a fine, independent, 

Q 



io The Seekers 

intelligent and forceful woman, or a materialistic, 
flippant society lady. It depends on the influences 
brought to bear, and on her own will. Somewhat 
spoiled. A good student, a good thinker, but not 
impelled to think by any great desire. She loves 
dancing more than anything else in the world. She 
comes from a home of mixed and uncertain piety. 

Henry, Florence's cousin, not quite sixteen years 
old, unknown to me before we formed the club. In 
his second high school year. A young student, dark, 
slim, shy, with much to say, but not yet able to say 
it well. He is rather dogmatic, but open to influence, 
a born seeker. Often appearing at first to be slow, 
or commonplace, he suddenly reveals unexpected un- 
derstanding and originality. He comes from a con- 
ventional home. 

Marian, Florence's friend, also unknown to me 
before the club. Fifteen and a half years old. In 
her fourth — last — high school year, preparing for 
college. A light brunette of a languid and yet in- 
tellectual type. Very intuitive, of quick insight, sym- 
pathetic, a lover of human nature, shy and quiet. A 
dreamer and a hero-worshiper. She expresses her- 
self well, but often in broken sentences and with 
hesitation. Her parents belong to the Ethical Culture 
Society, and have given her no religious education. 

Ruth, Marian's chum, sixteen years old, is also 
in her last high school year, preparing to study kin- 
dergarten. A slight, blonde girl, tall, and with her 
character written in her face: self-possessed, poise, 



The Members II 

idealism. Her voice, enunciation and language are 
those of one trained to speak well. Her thought is 
unusually developed, but along rather narrow lines. 
She loves children, and has chosen her work with an 
idealistic devotion. Her mother is Christian, her 
father Jewish, and their religion is Christian Science. 
She is a convinced Christian Scientist 



FIRST MEETING 

When we were all gathered about the table at 
three o'clock, I opened the discussion thus : 

"Do you remember that I told you we were going 
to speak to-day of the fact that there is almost no 
religion at present, and the cause for this? Now, 
are we all agreed that there is very little religion — 
true religious belief — at present?" 

All agreed to this except Henry. He said that he 
thought people were as religious as ever. 

"I think," said Florence to Henry, u that you are 
confusing religion and creed. People belong to 
churches and temples, and think they are religious, 
but they don't know what they believe." 

I saw Henry was not convinced, so I said to him : 
"I think perhaps we do not mean the same thing by 
religion, therefore we might as well go on, and speak 
of it later, when we do understand., 

"Now, I believe there is a definite historic reason 
for our religious lack, and I will tell it to you." 

Then I reviewed briefly the history of ancient re- 
ligions, Brahmanism, the Egyptian creed, the Greek 
and the early Catholic religions, to show that all these 
for various reasons — but chiefly because of the ig- 
norance of the populace — had been, as it were, double 
religions. There was an initiated religion of the 

12 



First Meeting 13 

priests, who did indeed see truth, who were mono- 
theists of the universal vision, and were filled with 
the sense of unity in all things. Besides this was the 
religion of myths, the popular religion. The people 
took literally the poetical tales told by the prophets; 
and these prophets, or priests, even went so far as to 
deceive the people purposely, for what they con- 
sidered the people's good. 

"I don't see how the priests could have known the 
truth," Ruth said, *if they meant to deceive the 
populace. Those who knew the truth would not wish 
to deceive." 

"You are right," I answered; "they had not the 
whole truth, but in so far as they saw, they saw 
truly." 

Ruth seemed to doubt this historic account. I 
quietly proved to her and the others that it was 
true. I read them a passage from Plato's "Repub- 
lic," in which he recommends telling the people a 
myth because belief in it would put them in the 
proper frame of mind. 

I went on to explain how the democratic spirit 
began to destroy the religion of the initiated. The 
aristocracy of religion was as much resented as the 
aristocracy of government. 

The result was that every one believed the popu- 
lar, mythical religion; and that is what most of our 
churches have lived upon since then. All the super- 
stitions of creeds, the absurd stories that are be- 
lieved literally by some people even to-day, are the 



14 The Seekers 

poetic symbols of prophets and teachers, accepted as 
narratives of fact. 

Next came the scientific spirit, and said: "The 
world is more than six thousand years old; it was not 
created in a week; the whale could not have swallowed 
Jonah, and given him up again." Now people cried 
out: "Religion is not true. We will believe nothing 
but science." 

When I spoke of the difference between mythical 
and true religion, I found the children already un- 
derstood this, that they realized Moses' true mean- 
ing when he spoke of the burning bush; that they 
knew Jesus, when he spoke of himself as the son 
of God, meant to express the divinity of man. I 
said the true religion spoke in poetry, and the popu- 
lar made its figures of speech into gods. 

"For instance," I said, "from where comes the 
line, 'The rosy fingers of the dawn' ?" 

"From Homer," answered Marian, "from the 
Odyssey." 

"Well," I went on, "a person reading that might 
say, 'Just think, the dawn has fingers; then it must 
have a hand.' " 

"Then," said Virginia, "he would add, 'So the 
dawn is a woman.' " 

I said one might worship an image of a god, but 
if he kept his mind upon the vast divine unity he 
would not be an idol worshiper. 

"But," objected Henry, "if he did it long enough, 
he would become an idol worshiper." 



First Meeting 15 

"He might," I said, "but he need not" 

Now we came to the question of science. What has 
religion to do with science ? 

Alfred said science led in the same direction, was 
looking for the same thing, 

Henry said science was supposed to be in opposi- 
tion to religion, because it destroyed her creeds. 

That, I answered him, seemed to me a good thing. 

Virginia said she thought religion and science were 
almost the same. She meant that her scientific knowl- 
edge of the universe led her to her religious convic- 
tions. 

Florence said she thought science and religion were 
altogether separate, had nothing to do with each 
other. 

Marian said she did not see how science could help 
us to religious knowledge. But it turns out that she 
has read no science at all, save what she was taught 
in school. 

Ruth said that science was the enemy of religion, 
that two things seeking in a different way could not 
possibly both reach the truth ; that science might tell 
us of material facts, but could not possibly give us 
the divine truth. 

I asked: "Are you sure material truth is not 
divine truth?" 

Then I said that I myself thought science was the 
servant of religion, that it was valuable only in so 
far as it helped us to a knowledge of life — divine and 
whole — "(I said aside to Ruth) and that I did think 



16 The Seekers 

it helped us so. It gave us a sense of unity, of our 
relation with the whole world, because we knew that 
the same law moved us and the stars. 

"Now," I went on, "Marian mentioned the other 
day that she had heard people say they were too 
educated to need religion. They meant they knew 
too much science. Can science replace religion?" 

They all said no. 

They saw at once that behind every science was 
the mystery, the unexplained, and that every scientist 
must begin with a philosophy. 

I said: "I have heard people say that science dis- 
proves immortality." 

Virginia answered: "It does not disprove immor- 
tality. It proves, indeed, that nothing ever is de- 
stroyed." 

"Do you think," I asked, "that there is such a 
thing as absolute religious knowledge?" 

"Yes," they said. 

"Do you think we can get it? That it is a certain 
knowledge?" 

They answered "Yes." 

"But," said Ruth, "you would want it proved." 

I used the word "faith," and the children rightly 
objected, because, they said, faith could be used to 
express the most superstitious of mythical beliefs. 
One must know. 

"I mean self-evident knowledge," I said. "If to- 
day the priests and the myths are dead, if we are to 
have a democratic religion, then each one of us must 



First Meeting ij 

be a prophet. We here to-day, we seven, shall find 
the unanswerable truth. Shall we?" 
"Yes, I believe so." 

"How do we know that such truth is to be reached? 
We do know certain things in ourselves ? We know 
the mystery is there? We know that which we call 
God?" 

"Yes," they said. 

"Is there any other reason for believing that the 
truth can be known?" 

Marian said: "In past times some men have 
known it, we feel certain." 

"That is just what I meant, Marian. Such men, 
you mean, as Moses and Jesus?" 

"Yes." 

"And we here shall get it. We shall know. 

"I believe," I said, "that when we have talked 
everything over we shall know the truth, and it shall 
be the same for each." 

"In fundamentals, perhaps," said Ruth, "but not 
in all things." 

No religion could be the true religion, we said, if 
it fostered antagonism or bitterness toward those of 
another persuasion. 

"One would wish to teach them," said Marian. 

"Well, then, what is the truth? We spoke of the 
nature of 'God.' What is God, the something we 
all know and cannot speak? 

Henry said: "I could tell better what I mean by 



Hv; '•: m 



1 8 The Seekers 

God by saying what is not God." We tried to make 
him explain. 

"Nothing is not God," said Virginia, "everything 
is God, good and bad, too; and the bad only seems 
bad to us, but really leads to good." 

"Everything is not God," said Ruth, "for God is 
perfect, and we are imperfect, and are striving for 
his perfection. Imperfection and all bad things are 
not of God." j* ;• ';* Jfej 

"What are they, then?" I asked. "Surely you do 
not believe in two gods, like the Zoroastrians, in a 
good and a bad? But the wisest of them saw that 
the two were one." 

Ruth answered: "I have it at home in a book, 
how evil came into God's world, although we are of 
him and he is perfect. I will bring it next time. 
I don't remember it." 

"Yes, do bring it. But I believe that as long as 
we are not perfect, God is not perfect." 

"That seems," answered Ruth, "as if we were 
God." 

"So we are a part of God, who is the whole. Any- 
thing else is unthinkable. And unless we are perfect, 
how can He be perfect?" 

The children corrected me, for I had used the 
wrong word. 

"God must be perfect," they said, "if we long for 
that perfection." 

Virginia said : "If the world is ever to be perfect, 






First Meeting 1 9 

then it is perfect now. Whatever shall be is here 
now, is here forever." 

"You are right," I answered, "I should not have 
used that word." 

Henry said: "The apple-tree might be perfect, 
but the apples might still be unripe." 

"Yes," I went on, "but the apple-tree would not 
be perfect unless the apples ripened." 

"The world is like a rose-bud," said Alfred "It 
is perfect as a bud, and yet it must open and evolve in 
its perfection." 

"Yes," I said, "or like a sleeper who awakens. 

"Now, then," I asked, "you do all believe in prog- 
ress ; that the world changes and that it changes in a 
certain direction?" 

"I don't know," said Virginia. "I believe that the 
world, that God, must always be the same, even 
though it change." 

"That is true, and it is a strange paradoxical truth, 
which I hope to make you understand later on, that 
all things change and progress, yet are ever the same, 
even as the rose-bud that unfolds." 

We had tacitly admitted that God and the aim of 
life stood for love and unity. Once when Henry 
spoke of the "fear" of God, the others corrected 
him. 

"Now, 1 ' I said, "if there is progress, what is it?" 

Ruth answered: "There is progress of individu- 
als, not of the world. Certain men saw the truth as 
clearly in old times as they could now." 



20 The Seekers 

"I do not believe so," I answered her. "I think 
the whole must evolve and bud forth, and that it 
does. Now you all admit that Moses was a prophet 
who saw the truth ?" 

They said "Yes." 

"But he felt enmities. Jesus was a greater prophet 
than Moses. In what was he greater?" 

"In his realization not only of the unity of God, 
but of the unity and divinity and love of man." 

"If Moses were here to-day," I asked, "in what 
might he be greater than he was in his own time?" 

Florence said : "He would have all the advantages 
of culture since then." 

"That would not make him greater." 

Marian answered: "You mean the democracy of 
to-day, the realization of the brotherhood of all men." 

"Yes," I said, "that is just what I mean. When 
I look at history, I can see no progress but this. Au- 
tomobiles, electricity, scientific knowledge, these are 
not progress except as they lead to that other prog- 
ress. We do understand our fellowmen better than 
we ever did. We can — some of us — call every savage 
our brother. That is the clear progress throughout 
history." 

The children were impressed by this fact. 

"Then you mean," said Ruth, "that universal love 
is the object of life?" 

"Yes," I said, "but I am afraid to use the word 
'love, 1 for it might mean blind love, and I mean un- 
derstanding love." 



First Meeting 21 

"Of course," said the children. 

"You mean love of mankind?" asked Marian. 

"Yes," I said, "but individual love, too; and per- 
haps more than both of these." 

'"I still believe," said Ruth, "that progress is only 
for the individual, and that it doesn't matter whether 
we progress here or hereafter. Personal love is self- 
ish. We want divine love." 

I answered her: "I will not speak now of here- 
after. But here and now, to-day, do we not want at 
once the thing that we want?" 

"Yes," they said. 

"Then, now and here we mean to go forward, as 
far as we can, and now and here we will love men 
with our might, because that is the human way and 
the human progress." 

"It does seem to me, from books," said Virginia, 
"that people are less mean, selfish and jealous than 
they were a hundred years ago." 

Marian smiled over to her. "You have been read- 
ing Thackeray," she said. 

"But," said Virginia, "all people are not pro- 
gressing together, for though we should find the truth 
now, manv others will not find it for a long time. The 
world is like a bunch of roses, in which some are full- 
blown, and others are small buds." 

"Yes," I answered her; "and for the whole to 
evolve, each bud must be unfolded in beauty." 

Now we said many things beside these, but these 
were the chief trend and conclusions of our thought. 



22 The Seekers 

I also told them how every moment was a promise 
and a fulfillment, a state of the endless whole. 

Next Sunday each is to tell me what he or she 
does mean by the word "God." 

The children were enthusiastic, uplifted, whole- 
hearted in their interest. 

Virginia and Alfred, who stayed some time after 
the others, had a long discussion on good and bad, 
in which I refused to join. 

Virginia said she thought all bad things had good 
results, and could be used for good. 

Alfred answered he was not sure of that, but he 
believed bad to be a necessary part of good. He 
said: "If I never felt ill, I could not know I felt 
well." 

Virginia said: "Reason made evil, for when crea- 
tures became reasonable they knew that the things 
they had done before were wrong." 



SECOND MEETING 

I spoke of the name of our club, the Seekers. I 
said that I thought it expressed exactly what we meant 
to do. 

Ruth answered that to her it seemed the only pos- 
sible, natural name. 

Then I read aloud Virginia's account of the last 
meeting : 

"A great many people think themselves too edu- 
cated to believe in any of the established religions, 
and then don't take the trouble to find out what they 
really think and what their true religion is. People 
have a wrong idea of the meaning of the word 
'religious.' Consequently, as they don't know what 
it means, they cannot be it. Many people who go to 
church or temple every Sabbath, and sleep, or take 
note of the different costumes of the congregation 
during the sermon, consider themselves religious. 

"We decided that we all believed in the unity of 
God. The truth has always been apparent to some, 
such as Moses and Jesus, and some of the Oriental 
priests. The two former tried to give the true idea 
to the people, but failed, as they were too poetical, 
and the people believed too literally. The latter 
tried to keep the people in ignorance, as it gave them 

23 



24 The Seekers 

power, and they therefore told the people what they 
themselves knew to be untruths. 

"We differed somewhat in our idea of God. Some 
thought he was all good and had no evil. I think he 
is all good, but I also think that all evil is his, but 
that every evil has a good motive and a good end. 

"No idea, no matter how surprising and new it may 
seem, is new. It has always been, although it has 
never been thought. The world is like a great bunch 
of rosebuds, each perfect as a bud, but not developed. 
Every beautiful idea, when it is thought, is a petal 
unfolding and revealing more perfect petals beneath. 
Thus one fine idea brings forth another. 

"I think a great many people do not know what 
they think. If you ask a person belonging to one of 
the established religions what they believe, I think 
their answer would be vague. Formerly, these re- 
ligions were very useful, as they made people love 
good. Now they prevent people from thinking, and 
make them dependent. They depend on others to 
make their beliefs and thoughts, when their brains 
should be, and probably are, fertile enough to think 
for themselves." 

I said that was just what I wanted, and I hoped 
to have one such paper each week. 

I said I believed that after we had spoken of God, 
and decided what we meant, and all agreed, we would 
not often use the word God, because it was so nearly 
unspeakable, so vast and holy, that we would take 
it as a natural background to our thought, 



Second Meeting 25 

"You know," I said, "how in the old Jewish tem- 
ples the name of God was mentioned only once a 
year." 

"And then only by the priest," Henry added. 

"But if we want to talk of God we shall have to 
use his name," said Ruth. The others seemed to 
agree with her. 

"The personal significance always clings to the 
name of God," Marian said; "but what other word 
can one use?" 

"Perhaps it would be better," suggested Henry,. 
"to use some such other word as All-powerful One." 

Virginia said that to her the word God had no 
personal significance. 

Ruth thought we might use the impersonal word 
"Good." I answered her that every attribute, even 
good, was limiting, and God was limitless. 

I saw that they did not in the least understand what 
I meant, that they could not until we went further. 
So I said: 

"I think that after we know what we mean by 
the word God, you will understand why we shall not 
want, and not need, to use it." 

Then I asked them what they meant by God. 

Virginia said: "God is the whole, good and bad, 
only what seems bad is really good. Or God is, 
rather, every feeling, every emotion." 

Henry said God was everything good, but that 
everything was good, and bad only seemed bad to 
US. 



26 The Seekers 

Alfred said: "I don't think bad is good, but I 
think that God must be everything, anyway." 

Marian tried to say that God is the vast unknown 
— something, which we know because we feel it. 

Florence said: "I spoke to brother Arthur about 
it, and I now think that God is sympathy; that is, 
sympathy and understanding of our fellow-men ; and 
as we reach that, we get to God." 

The others were surprised and startled by this ex- 
planation. I said I knew what Florence meant, but 
that she had not been able to express it clearly. 

Then Ruth said that she agreed with Henry. She 
called God spirit. 

"Yes," I answered, "if we take spirit to mean every- 
thing. For we know nothing except through our 
senses, our consciousness, our understanding; so that 
all we know is knowledge of spirit." 

They all agreed to that. 

"Now," I said, "I believe God to be in each of us, 
to be the self within us, and within all others, and 
within the universe; to be the knowledge, the light 
and the understanding. I can explain to you what 
I mean by reading a passage from the Indian Vedas, 
which seems to me so true, and so exactly what I 
want to say, that I could not explain it so well my- 
self." Then I read the following: 

"In the beginning was Self alone. Atman is the 
Self in all our selves — the Divine Self concealed by 
his own qualities. This Self they sometimes call the 
Undeveloped. . . • The generation of Brahma 



Second Meeting TJ 

was before all ages, unfolding himself evermore in a 
beautiful glory; everything which is highest and 
everything which is deepest belongs to him. Being 
and not being are unveiled through Brahma. . . . 
How can any one teach concerning Brahma? He is 
neither the known nor the unknown. That which 
cannot be expressed by words, but through which 
all expression comes, this I know to be Brahma. 
That which cannot be thought by the mind, but by 
which all thinking comes, this I know is Brahma. 
That which cannot be seen by the* eye, but by which 
the eye sees, is Brahma." 

They liked this so well, and said it expressed their 
feelings so truly, that I offered to copy it for each 
one of them. Marian said she did not understand 
what was meant by "concealed by his own -qualities." 

I answered: "We know God only because of 
the universe which we see and feel." 

"Yes," she said. 

"But just that the universe," I went on, "conceals 
God, is a mystery as well as a revelation." 

"I don't quite understand," said Marian. 

"It is like a great light," I said, "which is so bright 
that it dazzles you, and you cannot look at it." 

"Like the sun," said Virginia. 

"I think I see what you mean," Marian answered. 

"I continued: "Moses spoke of God in that same 
way, as the vast Self: 'And God said unto Moses, 
I Am That I Am ; and he said, Thus shalt thou say 



2$ The Seekers 

unto the children of Israel, I Am hath sent me unto 
you.' 

"And so," I went on, "myself and yourself, the 
self of every man and the self of the universe, that 
is God." 

With delightful frankness they said that they liked 
it better as it was put in "that thing on Brahma." 

"So do I," I answered. "We know only self. Is 
it not so?" 

"I don't like the word 'self,' " said Ruth; "it is too 
limited. I think only of my little self." 

Marian agreed. Virginia said that to her it seemed 
the true word, that she felt the whole as a vast self. 
"But isn't it more?" she asked. "God is feeling. 
When I ride in an open trolley, and the wind blows 
in my face, and the trees blow, and the clouds move 
in the sky, then the feeling that it gives me I call 
God." 

"Isn't it self, within yourself?" I asked. 

"Yes, it is," she answered. 

"Now," I said, "we are little, incomplete, limited 
creatures, but we need the whole universe to be com- 
plete. The whole universe is the rest of self, the 
rest of myself. That is what I mean by God, and in 
that sense I am a part of God." 

All the children agreed at once, as if this were the 
thing they had wanted to hear said. This first definite 
statement that I made seemed to us all unanswerably 
true. 



Second Meeting 29 

Immediately they went on to speak of good and 
bad; but I stopped them, thus: 

"There is one other thing I would like to make 
clear first, a historic question, but one that leads to 
the question of good and bad. What did the most 
illumined and inspired polytheists mean by their many 
gods?" 

Marian answered: "They meant many aspects 
of the one God." 

"Just so, Marian. But now do you know the inner 
meaning of Trinity?" 

None of them knew, and all seemed particularly 
interested and anxious to understand. "I never un- 
derstood," said Marian, "what was meant by the 
Holy Ghost." 

I said to them: "I will *tell you what it has al- 
ways meant to me, and to some others beside me, 
and you can see whether it seems true to you. To 
me the three are as parts of one. They are the con- 
trast, such as man and God, good and bad, even night 
and day, and the understanding, the unity that makes 
these two one." 

This needed much explanation. It was all summed 
up thus: The three in one — the triangle with three 
sides, which is still one — are : Myself, the other self, 
which I love and need for my completion, and the 
love and understanding which pass between us and 
make us one. Virginia said that she never thought 
of herself and the other self, that to her they were 



30 The Seekers 

one. The idea was very new to them all, and did not 
at once convince them. 

"Now," I said, "we see, however, that opposites 
are really one; and so I believe that good and bad are 
parts of the same thing. I believe that everything 
called bad is the price of going forward, of progress, 
that bad things are made by good things. Suppose 
that the world were in utter darkness, that no light 
were anywhere, then there would be no darkness, 
either. But the first flame of light would create the 
darkness." 

As I developed this idea, the children said very 
little, only asking me questions, until I had finished* 
This is how I explained it: We all believe — we 
seven here — that the good is understanding, love, the 
complete Divine Self, and everything which leads 
thereto is good. Then everything bad is that which 
does not lead thereto; or, rather, that is called bad 
which has not gone so far as the rest. So that the 
bad is not an actual state — in this I agree with Ruth 
— but is a condition of good. All pains are growing 
pains. Things are bad only because we already have 
something better. The other day I heard Virginia 
saying that when reason came into the world, crea- 
tures first knew the bad; because they saw that the 
life they had lived was a bad life. So, you see, every- 
thing bad is something which we feel to be behind 
us, not equal to our best knowledge. Pain and bad- 
ness are the price of progress, and we would rather 
go forward and suffer than stand still and be com- 



Second Meeting 31 

fortable. We long to go forward to the good, to the 
vast self of complete understanding. "A criminal/' 
I said, "may be a man who would have been good 
if he had lived in savage times among savages, but 
at present he is bad because we are ahead of him." 

"Then a bad man," said Henry, "is one who is 
behind his times, or else ahead of them." 

"Oh, no," they protested, "not ahead of them!" 

"No," I answered, "but the man ahead of his 
time, who is better than his time, may appear to be 
a criminal. You must see that the man who believes 
in the eternal good, who knows that he is going 
toward unity and complete love, is in a sense above 
the human law, and must discover his own laws. He 
may be a criminal in the eyes of others." 

"Give us an example," they said. 

"Jesus is one example. He was crucified as a 
criminal." 

"Because," said Henry, "he broke the Roman law* 
He refused to worship their images, and he called 
himself King of the Jews." 

"And they did not know," I answered, "in what 
sense he called himself King, so they had to crucify 
him as a traitor. Can't you think of some other ex- 
ample? Of course, there were all the heretics of old 
times." 

Alfred and Henry said that Roosevelt was in a 
sense an example, because he had been much blamed 
for exposing the truth and hurting business ; but that 
the hurt was an essential part of progress and good* 



32 The Seekers 

Ruth said: "Surely it is better to expose the truth 
and suffer for it, than to go on in falsehood." 

I gave as another example the Russians, with 
whom, a short time ago, it was a crime to educate the 
peasants ; and I told how brave men and women had 
been sent to Siberia for breaking the law in this re- 
spect. 

"But," I said, "this is a dangerous subject, and 
truly, we ought not to have mentioned it until we 
could probe it to the bottom. For surely in a demo- 
cratic state one of the essential inner laws is that we 
shall obey the law which our fellows have made." 

"If a law seems wrong to a man," said Henry, "he 
can try to change it, but meantime he must obey it. 
For instance, a man might believe in free trade, but 
still he would have no right to smuggle in goods." 

"One ought to obey school-laws, I suppose," said 
Marian. 

"Surely," I answered, "for the school is an insti- 
tution you enter from choice, and if you don't like 
the laws you can protest by leaving. But if there were 
a law unjust to your fellows, you would disobey it. 
Still, even then, the best way to protest would be by 
a strike of the students." 

They had a long discussion on the great crime of 
whispering in school, in which I scarcely joined, as I 
refuse to be a petty preacher to them. But I tried 
to explain to them why it was so hard for them to 
obey these little laws. 

"It is," I said, "because you did not help to make 



Second Meeting 33 

the laws yourselves, that you are tempted to break 
them out of mere mischief. Still, you would not lie 
about it, but rather do it openly, because you feel that 
truth between individuals is an inner law, the first 
step toward understanding. You know I believe 
that, even unconsciously, we have all always striven 
for this unity, this completeness that now we are 
going to strive for with open eyes." 

"And all bad leads in the same direction, and comes 
to good," said Virginia. 

u Now I want you to understand that clearly," I 
said. "All bad things are bad only because they do 
not reach up to our idea of the best. But that bad 
things are turned to good, or used for good is because 
we use them so; because the desire and the striving 
for good is so strong within us, that we use them to 
fulfil that desire. It is not a necessity. It is a matter 
of choice. If we wish, we can use everything for 
good. And we often do so, even unconsciously. 
Everything strives toward that good, which is life 
itself." 

"Then you believe," said Marian, "that even every 
criminal has some good in him?" 

"Yes, surely," I answered, "else he would not be 
here, alive, at all. Every living being is good; and 
if he is not so far as we at present, he may go farther 
than we some day. Surely, we will take him onward 
with us, else we cannot be complete. You must see 
that any one who believes the great good to be un- 
derstanding love and unity, cannot be made whole 



34 The Seekers 

till every one is made whole with him. He needs 
all the world." 

"Every one must feel that," said Marian. 

"The other day, Marian," I went on, "you said: 
'If we can never reach the goal, what is the good of 
anything?' Now, I, for one, believe in infinite good; 
I believe that no matter how far we go, we shall long 
to go farther, so that what now would seem unim- 
aginably good to us might one day seem bad. Can 
you imagine stagnant perfection?" 

"I think," said Marian, "that a perfectly good 
world would be terribly monotonous." - 

"That is what I think, too," I answered. "What 
we love is the going forward, the achieving, the 
striving." 

Henry said: "It is like travelling toward the hori- 
zon, and we think that is the end. But when we reach 
it, we see another horizon." 

Ruth asked: "How can we strive for anything, if 
we don't expect to reach it? Is not God what we 
long to reach? Is not God the ideal?" 

"Is not God, the real, here, now?" I answered her. 
"I cannot understand Infinity or Eternity, so I say 
Infinity is here and Eternity is now, because I am 
always here and now. So I cannot understand infinite 
good and unity, but I know that here and now I must 
strive for it, and that the constant striving, and get- 
ting more and ever more, is my greatest joy. Now, 
Ruth, do you admit that we cannot go forward alone, 
that all must go together to be complete?" 



Second Meeting 35 

"Yes." 

"Then the whole is one, and every man and crea- 
ture Is a part of me." 

"If every one believed that," said Marian, "how 
different, how much better the world would be 1 Peo- 
ple could not criticize each other." 

"I think it would,"* I said, "and I am glad you 
think so, too; for if every one believed that, no one 
could condemn another, any more than you could con- 
demn your own sore finger. You might say: 4 My 
finger is sore,' but you wouldn't say: 'My finger is 
very wicked, and I hate it.' " 

"I believe that," said Marian. "I am convinced 
mentally, but I don't feel it. I don't think that I 
could live it yet." 

Virginia asked whether she might say for us "Abou 
ben Adhem," which expressed our idea of man and 
God. And she said it for us. We were all silent for 
a few moments. Then I said: "And the love of 
even more than man, of all creatures, of all the 
world." 

Marian admitted that she did not love animals. 
Ruth said she did. Marian seems distressed by the 
fact that she cannot be perfect at once. That is what 
she means when she says she is mentally convinced, 
but doesn't feel it yet. Alfred feels the same lack. 
These ambitious children! 

"Now," I said, "I want you to feel certain and 
convinced of each thing as we go on. We all agree 
at present, don't we?" 



36 The Seekers 

"Yes," they answered. 

#t I feel as if something must be wrong, because 
we all agree," I went on, "and yet I know you are 
independent thinkers. Are you sure that all bad is 
a condition of good, even all physical bad, such things 
as accidents and loss ? For instance, railroads are of 
value — why?" 

None knew the true reason but Ruth. She said 
they brought nations together. 

"And the accidents on railroads," I said, "are the 
price of that progress, a price we have to pay for per- 
fecting that system. It would be better to avoid all 
accidents — as I hope we shall do one day— but, mean- 
while, we would rather take the risk than not have 
railroads. No one can be convinced, however, that 
all bad is a condition of good, until tried." 

"I have been tried," answered Virginia. 

They all thought themselves convinced, except Al- 
fred. He said : "It might be true nine times, but the 
tenth time it might not be true." 

"Then," said Henry, "you would believe it were 
true the tenth time, even though you didn't under- 
stand how." 

"No," I answered; "he would test it the tenth 
time. We will know* each thing." 

Now we re-examined our conviction on all these 
questions, and went over each point again. We 
probed the possibilities of atheism, and saw that no 
one who faced things could be an atheist, that atheism 
was the result of laziness, fear or vanity. Either a 



Second Meeting 37 

man feared to* face the truth, or could not bear to 
admit 'how little he knew. And jKe saw that an (i} 
atheist might be a very good' man, only he would 
build his morality on a philosophy he did not under- 
stand or examine. We might be good without any 
religious convictions, but this conviction, this belief, 
would give us a reason for goodness, and make us 
strong in the face of uncertainty, temptation and 
trial. Henry said things were worth while only when 
they were hard to do. 

"There," said I, "you have a proof of our instinct- 
ive feeling that pain is a necessary part of progress." 

Virginia said she wanted to believe what would 
make her happy; that she w T ould choose the optimistic 
faith. I answered her I wanted to believe the truth, 
happy or unhappy, but I had come to the conclusion 
at last that the truth was very good. I told them 
how at their age I had been in great doubt, how I 
had thought the truth, might be very bad. 

"Pain is real," I said, "but we will not fear to face 
that, or anything bitter, when we- know it to be a 
condition of going onward." 

Virginia said I was shaping her thought for her. 
I reminded her how she used to be my "little dis- 
ciple."* All the others, and especially Marian, said 
that this meeting was far more satisfying than the 
last ; that we had reached something definite. Marian 
said: "Iseem to see already w 7 hat we will have to 
say on every subject, but we shall have no end of 
things to speak of." 



THIRD MEETING 

Florence and Henry were delayed and did not 
arrive until after four. But before that we had al- 
ready gathered about the table, and found it hard 
to restrain ourselves from beginning the discussion. 
I said to the children that I thought we would not 
speak of immortality to-day, as there was too much 
that came before. I asked them whether they were 
anxious to get to it. They were very anxious. Flor- 
ence said: "It is such an important subject." Ruth 
said: "I believe we will all agree on immortality." 
I answered her that just there I thought we might 
disagree most. Marion said she had definite ideas 
on the subject. I can see that Henry has indefinite 
and theological ideas. 

I then read aloud the little paper Marian had writ- 
ten on our talk of the previous week : 

"On Sunday, October 18th, our club, the Seekers, 
held its second meeting. We first* discussed our ideas 
of God. We reached the conclusion that God is 
our divine self, that through God we can perceive, 
but we cannot perceive God. This seems to me a 
very beautiful idea. I think our discussion on this 
subject was particularly nice, because we did not try 

38 



Third Meeting 39 

to limit God by any attributes, for he is infinite. We 
also discussed progress. I understood it much better 
this week than last. The aim of progress is to reach 
a clear understanding of our fellow-beings; we hope 
that, sometime, there will be sympathy and under- 
standing among all men, for we each have a divine 
self, which will not reach perfection until it is in 
perfect .accord with all the other people's. We dis- 
cussed good and evil, and decided that evil is that 
which we outgrow, and which might once have 
seemed good, but which now seems bad because we 
have found something better. Good is the progress 
that we are making toward our goal of common un- 
derstanding. Unhappiness and accidents, etc., are in- 
cidental to progress, and will occur less and less fre- 
quently. I enjoyed this meeting of the club very 
much." 

We now reviewed all the conclusions we had 
reached. Then I was glad to have them speak once 
more of good and bad, and ask many questions. Ruth 
said she was not sure of being convinced. She said: 
"I talked it over with mother. It seems to me I some- 
times put my thought into your words, and imagine 
you have said what I mean, when perhaps you 
haven't. Please repeat that again, about good and 
bad." Ruth is always afraid she may be weakening 
in her own ideas, and tries not to be convinced. I 
strove to impress upon her that my idea might include 
hers. 

I said : " You see now that the thought I want to 



40 The Seekers 

give you is an unanswerable religion, which is not 
new, but larger than all the old beliefs. " 

Marian asked: "Large enough to include them 
all?" 

"Yes, just that. Did you ever think of the old 
word, holiness, h-o-l-i-n-e-s-s ? I know another word 
that to us would mean holiness, a different holiness." 

"You mean w-h-o-l-e?" said Marian. 

"Yes, to be whole and complete." 

Now as we spoke again of good and bad, we came 
upon the interesting question of disease. 

"How can that be explained as a part of progress?" 
asked Marian. 

Virginia, with her usual misconception on this sub- 
ject, said that disease helped us forward because 
through it scientists came to know and understand 
many things about life. Henry, still more off the 
track, said that disease led to a knowledge of medi- 
cine. 

"Henry's idea," I answered, "we cannot consider, 
because, of course, the only virtue of medical skill 
is that it cures disease, and if there were not disease 
we would not need medical progress. But Virginia's 
idea is true in a certain sense. It is quite true that 
disease impelled people to use the microscope, to dis- 
cover themselves physically, to learn of the infinitude 
of minute creatures in the universe; and so it led to a 
larger knowledge of life, because the infinitely little 
makes our world just as vast as the infinitely big. 
But this only shows that we made progress out of 



Third Meeting \l 

disease, as we make progress out of all things, because 
the will of life, the will to go forward, is within us. 
It does not show how disease itself can be the result 
or price of progress. That is a difficult question, but 
I seem to see it clearly, and I will try to explain it to 
you. None of you, except perhaps Virginia and Al- 
fred, have a clear idea of evolution, and I would like 
to spend one meeting in explaining it, because it is so 
essential. Don't you think so?" 

"Yes," they said. 

"But I can't go into this question of disease with- 
out explaining something of evolution to you now. I 
will try to make it clear : Each individual is different; 
As animals progressed and went forward, those»parts 
which were newest were also more unstable, because 
they were ready to change more. These parts were 
most apt to become diseased, or, rather, weakened, 
because progress might be in any direction, and had 
to feel its way." It was difficult for me to explain 
this to the children, who were so utterly unprepared, 
and I said much more. Even so, I don't think Marian 
and Ruth understood it thoroughly, and I shall have 
to repeat it when we speak of evolution. I said I 
did not believe the germs of disease ever entered any 
part unless that part were weakened or imperfect. 
I said: "Take as an example the human brain. Sup- 
pose that two children were born with brains slightly 
different from others. One might turn out to be a 
genius, and the other to be eccentric and even insane, 
because progress feels its way in all directions. So 



42 The Seekers 

disease, coming to the new unstable parts, would be 
the necessary cost of progress/* 

Virginia said : "Young and new things are always 
most delicate. I had a palm with many leaves, and 
one was new. Now, the palm was left for a day 
against the window pane, and the young leaf died 
from the pressure of the* glass, which did not at all 
hurt the old leaves." This poetical and delightful 
little figure of speech made me wonder whether Vir- 
ginia understood just what I meant. « 

We went over the question of good and bad, to 
Ruth's satisfaction. And then I asked Henry, whose 
understanding of it I doubted, to tell me in what 
three ways the bad was a part of good and progress. 
His answer was clear and true : 

"There is the bad, which is only bad because we 
now possess or know something better, the old good 
we have left behind us. Then there is the bad which 
is the direct result of progress and growth, such as 
accidents and disease. Then there is the use of bad 
which we make, to turn it into good, such as the 
knowledge we get from it, and, as Virginia said be- 
fore, the sympathy and love which grow out of 
misfortune." 

"Now," I said, "I would like some of you to tell 
me what you mean by those two words, matter and 
spirit." 

Henry, Virginia and Ruth were the only ones 
ready to answer. 

Henry said that spirit is the soul. He quoted from 



Third Meeting 43 

a Sunday-school formula: "The spirit of man is in 
the image of God, and immortal." 

I said that those words did not mean anything 
definite to me. They might be true, but I did not 
understand them. Ruth said she did, and it was 
what she meant; that matter was, like the bad, some- 
thing to be overcome and left behind. 

"I think," said Virginia, "that matter is the tool 
of spirit; the body is the servant of the mind." 

They began to argue, but I stopped them, saying: 
"I will first tell you what I think. Is there any mat- 
ter without form ? Has not all matter form, and is it 
not, therefore, as it were, something like an idea in 
the mind?" 

Henry wanted to deny this, but thought a moment, 
and admitted that all matter had some form. 

I went on: "I am a spirit, that is, a self; and I 
know things only in my spirit, because I see, hear, 
touch them. So I don't believe in matter, so called, 
at all. I think that our forms, our bodies, and all 
forms in the universe arc an expression of spirit or 
self." I said expression was the means for reaching 
unity, that creatures could not come together unless 
they expressed themselves to each other, and that I 
believed all expression was for this purpose. I said, 
what is called matter, the material conditions of life, 
are the result of the action of spirit; our bodies, which 
seem so solid and material, are constantly changed, 
are not at all the same as matter, but only in form; 
we are reborn each day according to the spirit. I 



44 The Seekers 

said that in this sense matter, so-called, was indeed 
something we were constantly leaving behind us, that 
every material condition was the result of a previous 
state of mind. This is true of all human things, 
and we cannot help thinking it is true of universal 
things. We know that fire burns, that planets whirl 
through space, that water runs, and we cannot help 
feeling these expressions of force to be the expression 
of something akin to will and spirit. 

Virginia said, then there must be something much 
more than human sympathy and understanding, which 
we long to reach. I answered, I believed so, but I 
had not wanted to suggest it to them. 

I said that all our present bodily conditions, the 
seemingly unalterable conditions called material, were 
the expression of will and spirit in the past, either of 
ours or others ; that our very existence here, the exist- 
ence of everything-, was the result of will and desire. 

Marian said: "I don't think it is just that we 
should suffer and be, because of another's will and 
spirit." 

Virginia answered: "It is fair. We are part of 
the whole." 

"That is so," said Marian. "Of course." It was 
a full and sufficient answer. 

I said I believed that disease could be prevented, 
even if not cured, by thought, because will and desire 
controlled the body. I said: "We have our own 
destiny in our hands, we are free to do as we choose 
with the future, because will shapes everything." I 



Third Meeting 45 

was delighted to find that the children had never 
heard the silly discussions about free will, and did 
not have to have that bugbear driven out. I said: 
"We are a part of the will of life." 

As another illustration of idea coming before form, 
I spoke of plants and seeds, how in the seed is the 
possibility, the idea of an infinity of trees. 

Virginia said : "In them spirit seems to be asleep, 
for it must be there." She said all things slept some- 
times, and while they slept the spirit worked in them, 

Ruth was not in the least convinced. Indeed, the 
thing was not overclear. She said: "I still think 
matter is something to be overcome, something that 
binds us. Surely we will sometime be spirits without 
matter, altogether spiritual." 

I tried to show them that spirit without expression 
would be unthinkable, that though expression might 
not be what we call matter, it would still be some ex- 
pression. I said: "Expression frees us." 

That was puzzling, and needed more explanation. 

I asked Henry: "What is the object and aim of 
life?" 

He answered vaguely: "I suppose it is spirit." 

"Now, what do you mean by that?" I asked. 

He answered: "I suppose we don't know what it 
is until we reach the truth." Evidently he did not, 
but all the others did. They all spoke at once to ex- 
plain to him that the object of life was complete un- 
derstanding and love. 

I said : "That is what expression is to get for us, 



46 The Seekers 

for we express ourselves in form and thought, so that 
we may understand and be understood. And that is 
what I meant by freedom. I meant understanding, 
love and perfect adjustment. In one sense matter is 
binding, because we want more freedom. Matter, so 
called, is the physical condition which our will made 
in the past, and which we want already to surpass. 
Suppose that a man wrote a book in which he put all 
his ideas, and that when he finished the book he was 
forbidden to write or speak again; his ideas would 
grow afterward, and as he could not express them, 
he would think himself limited and bound by the 
book he had written. So material conditions are bind- 
ing only because we want still more freedom, though 
they themselves were freedom at the time of their 
creation. In that sense, Ruth, you might call the body 
something which the spirit constantly wants to leave 
behind, because it is creating new forms for itself." 

Marian said : "It is as if there were a house with 
many rooms, and we thought we wanted to go only 
into the first; but each door made us long for the 
next room, and the next, so that we could never be 
satisfied." 

"And if one door were locked," I said, "we would 
consider ourselves sadly bound, though we had 
thought we wished to go only so far. Suppose a man 
made a statue, that statue would be an expression of 
his spirit. But if the next instant he wanted to 
change it, to make, say, the lines of the arm more 



Third Meeting 47 

perfect, he could not do so by willing. He would 
have to make a new statue." 

"But that is different," said Ruth. "The stuff he 
works in is still matter." 

I tried to explain how all creation is an inter- 
change of form, a flowing and influence. I tried to 
show them how all things whatsoever, even thoughts, 
are forms, and all form an expression. 

Virginia said: "Those who write books, or do 
any great work, are immortal in that, because of 
their influence." I answered her that all of us were 
immortal in this sense, that each thing had endless 
influence. 

Marian asked the one unanswerable question, and 
I was delighted. She said: "Why was the Divine 
Self ever divided ? How did we ever happen to need 
bodies and expression? Why did it not all grow to- 
gether?" 

She saw that contrast was needed for recognition. 
But why, she wondered, was anything at all? I an- 
swered her: "We said the other day that it did not 
matter whether the search for good were infinite or 
not. Neither does it concern us to know the unknow- 
able, whether or how the awaking world began. But 
we do know it is awakening, what is the direction, 
what is the aim and desire of life. To me no more 
seems needed. We know how to go forward." 

"That is true," she said. She spoke of old age 
and mental decay. She said she did not see why 
people lost, for no reason, the progress they seemed 



48 The Seekers 

to have made. I answered her that I did not think 
they lost it, unless they did not try to keep it; that it 
is a thing one must work for at each moment. 

"But why do they stop trying ?" she asked. 

"I don't think they stop," I said. "I think they 
never did try, but in youth such people merely had 
more stimulation from without." 

"Now, my grandfather," she said, "was an intelli- 
gent man, and he is losing his memory." 

"Is he losing the valuable thing? Does he love 
you less, understand you less? Are you sure the 
memory he is losing is the thing he still needs?" 

She saw what I meant. She was struck by it. 

I went on: "One might lose the ability to do 
mathematics, when one had gained all there was to be 
got out of mathematics." 

She said: "I think you are right. I understand 
that." 

Now when Ruth insisted again that matter was 
something binding, something to be left behind, 
Alfred said : 

"I don't think it is binding." 

"Neither do I," said Virginia. 

"Neither do I," said I, "for we can always ex- 
press ourselves in a new way. The man who has 
written a book is not dumb afterward." 

The meeting was very short and unsatisfactory. I 
believe that the children went home disappointed, for 
I could see that we had not got at anything that the 
children had not understood. Since then Virginia's 



Third Meeting 49 

mother told me that Virginia did not enjoy it as 
much as the other meetings ; that it was too deep for 
her. Florence's "big brother Arthur" told me that 
she, too, did not enjoy it as much, and that when he 
questioned her she seemed to understand clearly only 
the fact that there was no sharp distinction between 
mind and matter. Otherwise, as he put it, she "talked 
woolly." During the meeting she yawned once. 

Well, then, this meeting was a failure. As such, 
I want to use it. What was the cause? Of course, 
one of the chief causes was the difficulty of the sub- 
ject, and yet the una voidability of it. How could I 
go on to speak of immortality to children with such 
absurd notions? I don't think it could be "skipped." 
Of course, I would at first suppose that my method 
of tackling the subject was at fault. It may be so, 
but at present I can think of no other method. I 
think that the real and remediable cause of the diffi- 
culty was this: That the children did not have a 
good enough conception of the philosophy of science, 
actual knowledge of cosmic facts, to understand my 
point of view. I should have had the talk on evo- 
lution first. To remedy this as much as possible, I 
am going to have the talk on evolution next. To 
speak of immortality now would cause still more con- 
fusion. I await next Sunday with some uncertainty 
and doubt. For the next meeting must be good, or 
the club will be a failure. We must learn by experi- 
ence, they as well as I. I will go forward with 
courage, if my little army does not fail me. 



50 The Seekers 

If I were giving again the talk on matter and 
spirit, I would do it differently. I would not say 
"matter is the expression of spirit," but "matter is 
the medium through which spirit expresses itself." 
For matter is something, though we know not what, 
and never know it except as form, which seems to 
us always an expression of will. But we know that, 
whatever it be, it passes from one controlling will to 
another. (Of course, it is too difficult to be dis- 
cussed in this fashion by boys and girls.) 



FOURTH MEETING 

After all, the last meeting was not such a failure 
as I had supposed. I asked Alfred to come earlier, 
and questioned him before the others arrived. He 
answered me with precision and common sense. He 
said: "All matter was once spirit, is the result of 
spirit." When I said: "What we call matter is the 
medium through which spirit expresses itself," he 
answered: "Yes, but spirit expresses itself in other 
ways, too." "Think a minute," said I, "does it? 
Can the spirit express itself through any other me- 
dium?" "No," he said, after thinking a moment, 
"no, of course not." "Nor," said I, "do we at all 
know matter except through the intellect." I told 
him that I wanted to speak to him alone because he 
was so silent at the club. Then Henry arrived. He 
said he. enjoyed the last meeting very much, and 
thought he understood it all. The paper he wrote 
proved that he understood far better than I had 
supposed: 

"To-day we first went over what we «had said last 
week. The question arose as to which class of evil 
disease belongs. We came to the conclusion that it 
is the result or price of progress. We also spoke 
about the idea of a trinity. We had said at the last 

Si 



52 The Seekers 

meeting that God is a divine self within us, and that 
when we know each other we will know God. Con- 
necting each one of us to the other, there is a feeling 
of sympathy; a third element. That is to say, there 
is you, and myself, and, making the third part, that 
sympathetic* understanding which brings us closer to- 
gether. 

"The chief topic to-day was that of Matter and 
Spirit. At first there was a little difference of opin- 
ion, but we finally agreed that in reality everything is 
spirit, and that which we call matter is only the ex- 
pression of the spirit. As an example we took the 
sculptor, who, getting an idea through the mind, 
expresses, this spirit in a statue, which we call matter. 
We speak* of the body as matter, but it is spirit, in 
as much as it is the medium through which the spirit 
manifests itself." 

When I told the children I had decided to take 
up evolution before immortality, because evolution 
was the problem of creation, they were all satisfied 
and interested. 

Then I read aloud Marian's little paper: 

"On Sunday, October 25th, the Seekers held a 
regular meeting. We first reviewed our discussion 
of the last week, and then took up the subject of 
Matter and Spirit. Our discussion was long, and 
the conclusion we reached was that matter is an ex- 
pression of spirit. In the first place, matter is that 
which has form or qualities. Every material thing 
is the expression of a thought. If a man makes a 



Fourth Meeting 53 

table, he does so because he wishes to, because it is 
his will to do so. If he writes a book, that book is 
an expression of his thought, but it is what is com- 
monly called matter. Matter is, in short, a result of 
spirit, is an expression of spirit. Our bodies are the 
expression of our minds, and the way in which we 
express ourselves to each other. If our bodies are 
not perfect, if they are diseased, it is merely that our 
minds have not advanced far enough to express the 
perfect body. Our talk this week helped me a great 
deal. Although we did not cover much ground, 
we reached a conclusion on one of the most difficult 
subjects, and I think almost every one was convinced." 

Ruth said she had thought all the week of what I 
had told them, and that, she was sure she agreed with 
me now. The children's thoughts seem to develop 
during the week, as if they shaped -afterward, and 
slowly, all that had been said. 

Virginia disagreed with Marian, that the perfect 
mind would make the perfect body. She said : "Peo- 
ple with perfect bodies are often fools. And sickly 
people are often the most intelligent and fine spirited." 

Marian and Ruth both protested, but could not 
express themselves. So I said: "That is true. But 
still I believe the perfect mind would have the per- 
fect body. Our bodies may be imperfect for several 
reasons: Perhaps we are suffering for the wrong 
spirit of our ancestors, through heredity. Or, again, 
the body which may be good enough, and quite per- 
fect, even, with the fool's mind, might not be strong 



54 The Seekers 

enough for the active mind. That mind would have 
to create for itself a more perfect body. So, you 
see, our bodily imperfections are the price of progress. 
Our upright position, for instance, which is so great 
a help to the mind, is a strain on the body, and the 
cause of many of our ills." 

Ruth said: "I think our bodies will become so 
much better than they are now, that the best we 
know now will seem very poor." 

Virginia had written a little paper, which seemed 
to me at the first reading so vague and uncompre- 
hending, that I did not wish to read it aloud. I was 
glad I did read it aloud, however, as her explanation 
and interpretation of herself showed that she under- 
stood- This is the paper: 



MY IDEA OF MATTER 

"Matter is a part of mind. Without it there 
would be no improvement of the mind. Mind, with- 
out matter, would be like- a stunted child. It would 
still exist, but it would not grow. It seems as if 
matter were the medium between mind and progress." 

Virginia said that was her own idea, whether we 
agreed or not. It means, according to Virginia, that 
matter is the medium of expression of mind, and 
that mind could not grow without this medium. Very 
good, it seems to me; and we do agree. 

I said, and Ruth and Henry joined me, that one 



Fourth Meeting 55 

must make a distinction, for convenience, at least, be- 
tween the words "spirit" and "matter." Marian said 
they had been separated so long, so completely and 
so foolishly, that she was glad to dwell upon their 
sameness. 

Now I went on to speak of evolution.* I showed 
them how the theory of evolution, or descent from 
a common ancestor or ancestors, was a creation theory, 
just as much as Genesis was a creation theory. 

I said: "There is no reason why you should be- 
lieve this any more than any other history, or story, 
unless the proofs convince you." 

Alfred and Virginia said it was a reasonable, con- 
vincing theory. Marian saw what I meant, and, not 
knowing so much as they, asked for the proof. 

I first gave them the proof of likeness of struc- 
ture, and showed them pictures of the resemblances 
of bone and organ structure in various animals. Ruth 
said she was quite sure all little babies were like mon- 
keys. 

Then I gave the proof of the race-likeness of the 
young. (Examples and illustrations.) 

Then that of rudimentary organs. (Examples and 
illustrations.) 

Virginia suggested the geological proof in the find- 
ing of fossils. I enlarged on this, and spoke of series 
of living and extinct shells, etc. 



*For examples and illustrations I used the first volume of 
Romanes' " Darwin and After Darwin " as more convenient 
and compact than Darwin himself. 



56 The Seekers 

I traced the general progress of evolution, the di- 
vision into groups and branches. 

I told them — what some knew — that evolution was 
an ancient, philosophical theory, and only the method 
of evolution Darwinian. Some of them said Darwin's 
name always made them think of monkeys. 

I now went on to explain Darwin's theory of 
natural selection ; spoke of variation in all directions 
as the law of life; then explained the struggle for 
food and place, and then protective colorings, and 
consequent elimination. The children gave as many 
examples and instances as myself. Then I went on 
to tell what artificial selection had been able to do, 
and showed a group of pictures of the dog, domesti- 
cated from a wolf-like animal. The pictures included 
prize bulldogs, St. Bernards, French poodles, tiny 
Japanese dogs and great Danes. 

Now Florence, who has just had instruction in 
evolution by her helpful big brother, said: 

"But a great many scientists no longer accept 
natural selection and the survival of the fittest as an 
explanation of development. There is the theory of 
isolation, too." 

"Yes," I said, "and I am one of those who believe 
in natural selection only in part, but I wanted you 
to hear it all. Florence, explain the effect of isola- 



tion to us." 



She explained it, and gave a very good example, 
that of some birds in a species having stronger wings 
than others, and so flying farther to nest. 



Fourth Meeting 57 

When I asked what any theory of the process of 
evolution failed to explain, Ruth answered "immor- 
tality." I told her that evolutionary theories did not 
attempt to explain that. 

I showed them how no theory explained change it- 
self, explained the initial variation. I showed them, 
too, the limits of natural selection. When I took the 
eye as an example of a specialized organ too com- 
plex to be easily accounted for by natural selection, I 
found them hard to convince, because they did not 
realize the complexity of the eye. But when I spoke 
of the life and death value of any organic change as 
necessary for its selection, they saw how that limited 
selection in many ways. 

We spoke of the relation of evolution to our idea 
of life. At once they said it was a proof of progress. 

I insisted on its being a self-evolving, a will in 
life. They saw that. Alfred said: "Could the one- 
celled creature will; did it know enough?" Marian 
answered that it was a subconscious will. 

Henry said: "Within living things is the inner 
will. But how about the earth? Isn't there a will 
outside for other things?" 

I answered that even the earth seemed self-im- 
pelled; that within the universe seemed to be an 
immense will, and we were a part of that will ; it was 
our will within us. 

I said that creatures could change only because 
they wanted to be different, because something wanted 
to be different. I said to change, and to change al- 



58 The Seekers 

ways in one direction, was progress; that what we 
wanted to do, and thought we had done, was to find 
that direction. 

They saw at once how physical death was neces- 
sary to race progress, how the old died to make room 
for the young, and how each newborn creature had 
new possibilities of progress. 

But when I spoke of all the progress of evolution, 
of even struggle and selection leading toward har- 
mony, fitness and relationship, which is the thing we 
want, Ruth said: 

"I don't see how the lobster killing its fellows be- 
cause it had a larger claw could lead to harmony and 
better relationship." 

That was a good point. But I scarcely had a 
chance to answer it, for Marian said that creatures 
had to develop themselves first 

Then I spoke again, in this relation, of changing 
standards of good and bad, how what was right for 
an animal, for the lobster, for instance, was wrong 
for us. I showed them how all animals were selfish, 
and had to be selfish and self-evolving alone ; how we 
had to be unselfish only because we realized how 
vast we were. Marian spoke again of the criminal. 
She said: "If he were behind us, he, from his own 
point of view, would not be bad." 

"But he would have to be punished," said Ruth, 
"and made to be good." 

"Yes," I answered, "for he is human, and we ex- 



Fourth Meeting 59 

pect human actions of him. But we would not dare 
to blame him." 

Henry said we would punish him not as a punish- 
ment to hurt him, but to teach him. 

We spoke again of diversity as necessary to com- 
prehension, to understanding. I told them I had a 
whimsical fancy that the first one-celled creature di- 
vided because it wanted company. If creatures never 
divided, and became different, they certainly could 
never understand each other. Marian said : 

"I see now. It is like a girl who had always lived 
in her own family and developed pretty well there, 
but the more different people she met the better she 
would develop." 

"Yes," I answered, "unlikeness gives us recogni- 
tion." 

Virginia said: "If we were all one self, life would 
be uninteresting." 

"Yes," said I, "but we might reach a self-conscious 
self which is unthinkable to us now. There is one 
way, however, in which evolution helps us, and that 
is such an obvious way that none of you has thought 
of it." 

For a moment they were puzzled. Then Alfred 
said: "It is that we are really all one self." 

"Oh, I see," said Marian. 

"Yes," I answered, "it is that we are all physically 
related with all life." 

Then I went on to say that no one knew how life 
began, that there were theories, but they might be 



60 The Seekers 

no better than fairy tales. They wanted to hear 
some. I said: 

"One theory is that life is eternal in the shape of 
life-germs, or organic matter, and that these pass from 
planet to planet throughout the ether forever. But 
it is only a theory, and a doubtful one." 
"I like that theory," said Virginia. 

I said I thought beginnings concerned us no more 
than ends, that all things, histories, science, knowl- 
edge, theories concerned us only in so far as they 
helped us to understand, as they served the large aim 
of life and showed us how to go. I made Henry 
repeat again that the aim of life was complete under- 
standing. I said: "To me it is like a measure by 
which I measure and value all things." We tried to 
measure various things by it, such as the relative ad- 
vancement of monkeys, birds and ants, and the great- 
ness of Napoleon and Shakespeare. We came to few 
conclusions, except that the love of man made man 
lovable, and that Shakespeare must have been a lover 
of men. 

Henry said: "I think he worked for his own 
sake, and not for others." 

"Yes," I answered; "but he loved and understood 
his fellows, so he could not help serving them in 
serving himself. It was his joy." 

I said if we had that standard of understanding 
love, we would need no other morality. I quoted 
from St. Augustine's Confessions : 

"Love God, and do as you please." 



Fourth Meeting 61 

"But," I said, "most of us do not love God, or the 
great good, enough to be able to do as we please 
without thinking. We still have to stop to measure." 

As they were going home, I said: "Next week we 
will speak of immortality." 

"Really, this time?" asked Ruth. 

"Now, after this meeting," said Marian, "I am 
afraid you may tell us, what I have sometimes heard, 
that we are immortal in the race. Will you?" 

"No," I answered, "I will not." 



FIFTH MEETING 

Henry said: "I told some one lately about our 
club and what we did, and he thought we spoke of 
things tfiat were too deep and philosophical." 

"Do you think so?" I asked. 

"No," he answered, "of course I don't." 

I said : "We are doing something unusual for boys 
and girls of your age. Most people would think you 
not able to understand and enjoy it. But I know 
you do, and you know it." 

Marian said: "Why should we not be able to talk 
of these things in a club, when we certainly do talk 
of them among ourselves?" 

I read Henry's paper: 

"To-day we spoke on the theory of evolution. The 
theory tells us that we are descended from a single, 
one-celled animal. This animal grew and was di- 
vided into several cells, which in turn were divided. 
We find that when a race of animals needs something 
with which to protect itself, or with which to get 
food, that thing usually grows, as in the case of the 
mother bird, whose feathers are usually the color of 
the place where she has her nest. In this manner the 

62 



Fifth Meeting 63 

one-celled animals may have developed, as the in- 
creasing numbers made it harder to get food, and 
brought other difficulties. Another way in which 
species may develop is that of isolation. For example, 
while a flocL of birds is flying south to escape the 
cold, some* of the weaker ones are left on the way. 
Here the cold may cause many feathers to grow, and 
the other conditions may have such an effect as to 
develop an entirely new kind of bird. We can also 
take as an example the different colors of men, caused 
by the conditions in which they live. 

"The disappearance of certain species while others 
survive is, according to the idea of natural selection, 
only the survival of the fittest. We find that long 
ago there were animals larger than any of to-day, 
but they have completely died out, perhaps because 
they could not find food, while the smaller, weaker 
animals have survived because they were better fitted 
for the conditions. Looking back at history, we can 
see how at different periods one nation would wipe 
out another which was weaker, or how one people, 
more advanced than others, could better protect itself 
from the elements, and, therefore, lived while others 
died. The similarity of different animals gives a 
good foundation for this theory. A baby will often 
take attitudes exactly like those of a monkey, and 
while it is young crawl on all fours like animals. Dif- 
ferent kinds of animals have bones and all other 
parts of the body just alike, and also like those of 
men. 



64 The Seekers 

"This theory teaches progression and is therefore 
useful. It teaches that we were once one, and we 
should therefore have sympathy with one another," 

I next read Florence's paper: 

"In our last talk we spoke of evolution and its 
bearing on progress. I shall simply try to give an 
idea of what we said about evolution itself. By evo- 
lution we mean that we all sprang from a common 
ancestral source, and have gradually developed into 
higher and different forms. In general, this change 
has been from the greatest simplicity, which we find 
in the one-celled animal, to the highest complexity. 

"Darwin, although not the first to advance the 
theory of evolution, was the first to enlarge and fur- 
ther it. His deductions rest on three main theories — 
heredity, variation and natural selection. He thought 
that the offspring always inherited the parents' quali- 
ties with something new in its composition. By 
natural selection Darwin meant the survival of the 
fittest, that is, that only the most fitted for life should 
live. In this way the offspring receiving traits from 
its parents, if they be to its advantage, will live and 
continue them, and those who have not got them will 
be killed. In other words, Darwin believed that the 
terrible struggle for existence, which usually destroys 
nine-tenths of each generation, must favor those who 
possess the best variation for their environment ; and 
that these will in turn hand on to their successors 
these favoring variations. In this next generation 



Fifth Meeting 65 

the same process will be repeated, and in this way 
we get a steady though very gradual advance. 

"To-day, however, looking at it broadly, we can 
see that all heredity and variation need is some way 
of separating those individuals having some peculiar 
variation from those who do not possess any. This 
we call isolation, and it can easily be seen that natural 
selection is only a subhead under this title. Another 
form of isolation beside natural selection is geo- 
graphical. 

"Our theories have advanced to this stage, and al- 
though it is quite a large move from the original ideas 
of Darwin, there are many questions still puzzling 
us, which have yet to be solved." 

Then came Marian's paper: 

"On Sunday, November 1st, the Seekers held a 
very interesting meeting. The subject we discussed 
was Evolution. The very lowest form of life is a 
one-celled animal. This divides into a two-celled 
one, which in turn continues to divide and differentiate 
until it takes the form of a plant or animal. All 
animals must have had some common ancestor. The 
proof of this is the existence of rudimentary organs, 
such as the appendix in man and the bones in the 
flipper of a whale where we should expect legs. An- 
other proof is to be found in the remains and knowl- 
edge we have of prehistoric animals. Some of them 
were shaped like reptiles, and yet had wings. In 
connection with evolution, there are the theories of 
natural selection and isolation. Natural selection is 



66 The Seekers 

the belief in the survival of the fittest. For instance, 
if one lobster happened to grow a large claw, which 
enabled it to fight better, its young were likely to 
inherit this tendency, and their young also, etc., until 
the larger-clawed lobsters, being better able to fight, 
would kill off most of the others. This theory would 
not always hold good, however. The theory of iso- 
lation is very interesting. If, for instance, a bird of 
one species was born with a longer bill than most of 
the others, and this bird found a warmer climate was 
better for it, and, after mating, flew farther south, 
its young would probably inherit this longer bill, and 
would also fly farther south than most of the species. 
Soon they would become entirely separated from the 
original species, and would become a new class of 
birds. The connection that Evolution has with our 
work is that evolution is progress and that our aim 
is progress. Evolution also helps us to understand 
animals and plants, and to come into a better under- 
standing with nature. Disease is the price of prog- 
ress. As we progress, one part goes ahead, often at 
the expense of some other part. Thus disease may 
be called the price of progress." 

Marian admitted that she was rather mixed up 
about the cells dividing and the long-billed bird going 
south for his health. But this is doing well for the 
unscientific Marian, who said a while ago that she 
did not see how science could have any effect on our 
view of life. 

Then I read Virginia's paper: 



Fifth Meeting 67 

THEORY OF EVOLUTION 

"The first life that appeared on the earth was a 
one-celled animal or plant that appeared beneath the 
water. The germs of life travel through the ether, 
and wherever there are conditions in which living 
things can thrive, there they settle. So that was the 
way in which life began on the earth. 

"This one-celled animal, after a while, divided into 
more cells, and thus became more complicated. When 
land appeared, land animals and plants came into 
existence. And these animals became higher and 
higher. First the animals without a spine, then a 
more complicated specimen, in the lower forms of 
vertebrates. Then the reptiles, out of which came 
two branches, the birds and the immense reptiles of 
which none have survived that I know of. But out 
of them came the mammals. And after many thou- 
sands of years, man appeared. 

"At first man was more like an animal, but after 
centuries he became less savage. He made imple- 
ments for himself, and lived in tribes with his fellow 
men; and the more highly civilized man becomes, the 
more will he sympathize with the rest of mankind, 
so that when the highest civilization arrives, it will 
only mean complete love of all living things." 

I insisted that the theory of germ transmission was 
not a fact. I said she seemed to have avoided natural 
selection, that I thought she did not like it because 
it was too mathematical and too logical for her. Ruth 



68 The Seekers 

thought perhaps that was why she did not like it 
much, either, though it interested her. I said: "It 
seems at first so 'cruel' a theory; it repels us until 
we remember that what is cruel in a man is not so 
in a beast." Virginia answered that she did not 
think it cruel, because it was not meant cruelly. "They 
had to kill each other," she said. Henry asked me 
whether I thought it cruel to eat animals. I answered 
it was not cruel, unless they were cruelly killed. Ruth 
added that some time we would get beyond the need 
of eating animals. "To hunt for fun is wicked," 
said Virginia. 

Marian said : "Perhaps we think natural selection 
not so cruel among animals, because we did not do 
the suffering." 

The children all said they did not remember just 
what relation evolution had to our idea of life. I 
answered that the very fact that we could not go on 
in our thought without it proved its relation, and that 
we would constantly come back to it, that I did not 
need to explain it now. 

Then we spoke of prayer. I asked each one in 
turn what and how much they had thought of it. 

Alfred said he had never thought of it, that he 
had prayed as a baby, but had stopped early and 
never felt the need. Florence said the same. Henry 
said he believed in prayer, especially in prayer for 
strength in any undertaking. "Of course," he went 
on, "I don't expect to be helped against the other 
fellow, but I get strength in praying for strength " 



Fifth Meeting 69 

"I agree with you," said Ruth, "only don't you 
pray to know whether you are right or not? For you 
might be wrong." 

"If I thought I might be wrong," he answered, 
"I wouldn't be doing the thing I was doing." They 
argued it a bit. "But," he went on, "I have no set 
formula for prayer, nor a definite time." 

Virginia said: "I have always prayed. When I 
was little I got in the habit of saying a silly little 
German prayer, so that I could not go to sleep without 
saying something. So when the little prayer seemed 
too silly to me, I began saying each evening the stanza 
of a poem." 

"What poem?" I asked. 

"The last stanza of the 'Chambered Nautilus.' I 
could not go to sleep unless I said it." 

She recited it for us. 

Marian said: "It depends on what you mean by 
prayer. I never learned to say any, nor ever wanted 
to, but I do have a prayer-feeling." 

We all agreed that the prayer which asked for 
something definite was folly. I said prayer was get- 
ting into oneness with the vast Self around and 
behind us, and drawing strength from that which 
was ours for the asking, which was ourself. 

Marian said it was getting into harmony with the 
world. 

We thought every one had that feeling of vast- 
ness, of oneness with God, at times. Virginia said 
she got it especially when she was by the sea. 



JO The Seekers 

"I feel it most," said Marian, "when I am out of 
doors, and feel my close relation with nature." 

Henry said he felt it most in a big crowd of people. 

"Yes," answered Ruth; "then you feel how little 
all this is, and the vast, big life above it all." 

"You don't mean, Ruth," I asked "that you feel 
the crowd to be a little thing?" 

"Oh, no," she answered. "I feel it in the crowd." 

Henry said : "To be among people always arouses 
that feeling of sympathy." 

There are many ways of praying, I said; to speak 
certain words that aroused in us the prayer-feeling 
was a good way; but that the words were only to 
awaken the feeling in us, and were worth nothing by 
themselves. If one could feel the prayer without any 
words whatever, it would be just as well. Florence 
thought it very hard not to get to repeat words by 
rote. Henry said he always made a particular effort 
to think of the meaning of the words as he said 
them. 

"I don't believe," said Virginia, "that it is so much 
thought as feeling. I don't always think of the mean- 
ing of those words when I say them, but I get from 
them the feeling that I must have, to go to sleep." 

"And now," I went on, "it seems especially impor- 
tant to get into this frame of mind just before we go 
to sleep. For during sleep it seems as if the bigger 
self were working for us. And as we go to sleep, 
so shall we be next day. I think that if, as you fall 
asleep, you ask — your vast self — for strength, for 



Fifth Meeting J I 

the power to do whatever you know you must do 
next day, and to solve whatever problems you have 
to solve, and then get the deep sense of prayer, you 
usually awaken with the strength you need, and your 
problems solved. Is it not so?" 

Virginia said she always found that if she wanted 
to learn something, she had only to read it over to 
herself at night, without learning it, and in the morn- 
ing, when she awoke, she knew it. Ruth said she 
found it so ; that she always felt next day according 
to the way she had fallen asleep at night. They had 
various opinions. Marian said it did not matter 
how she fell asleep at night; if things went well in 
the morning, the whole day went well; if ill, then 
the (fay went ill. She loves the power of each new 
day. Alfred said he thought that our brains worked 
for us in sleep, because then the mind was free from 
all obstructing thoughts. 

I repeated for them a little prayer I had written 
for a baby: 

"Great Lord of life, who lives in me, 
And lives in all I know, 
With happy thoughts I go to sleep ; 
And while I sleep I grow. 

"I hope to wake this coming morn 
More strong, and brave and bright; 
While you shall stay, both night and day, 
With all I love to-night." 



72 The Seekers 

They said it did not seem babyish to them. Henry, 
especially, liked it, and several of them wished to 
copy it. 

I said one might have the "prayer-feeling," the 
sense of the whole, so constantly that one would not 
need to pray, that one's whole life might be a prayer. 

The children objected to this, because they thought 
it would be impossible now, in our imperfect condi- 
tion. Virginia said: "A person who lived that way 
would be a perfect saint." Henry thought it would 
make one cold and unsympathetic. 

u How is that possible," I asked, "when it would 
be a state of constant sympathy and understanding of 
life?" 

"No," said Ruth; "such a person would be too 
much above us. I don't think one could live so, at 
present. It would imply a perfection physical and 
mentaWhat we have not yet reached." 

Florence said she not only thought such a state 
possible, but she believed there were people who lived 
in this way now, and that she knew such people. 

Some one suggested that they must be unspeakably 
happy. 

"No," answered Florence; "not necessarily happy, 
at all." 

I said that I thought such a life would be a state 
of happiness. 

They all agreed ; Florence, too, after a moment. 

Marian and Henry said they had never met people 
without limitations. Florence insisted she had ; 



Fifth Meeting y% 

whereupon Marian called her a hero-worshiper. I 
said people's limitations were where they failed to 
understand, and that^wcnone of us understood every- 
thing. The sense of oneness would not imply, .how- 
ever, either perfection or apartness or superiority. 
One might feel everything in this way, whenever one 
thought of it. 

Henry answered: "But how often is one not oc- 
cupied? Little things distract us constantly." 

Marian said: "It means having always the sense 
of oneness, sympathy and understanding, and always 
acting, thinking and judging according to that." 

"Yes," said I, "and there is another thing that 
seems to me a prayer. Every creative action ; that is, 
everything we do which brings us into relation with 
the world, is a prayer because it is an expression of 
oneness." 

Marian said : "It seems as if there were two kinds 
of prayer, one strength-giving and one strength- 
getting." 

I don't know how we came upon the subject of 
circles. I said that the smallest things, as well as 
the largest, were prone to express themselves in a 
universal way, that every drop of water naturally 
formed itself into a sphere. 

"Yes," said Marian; "and the circle seems to stand 
for all life." 

Now we spoke of immortality. I asked each to 
tell me what he or she thought. 

Virginia did not want to express her opinion. Ruth 



74 The Seekers 

and Henry vaguely implied that they believed in im* 
mortality. Alfred said: 

"I think it is very good for people, if they can 
believe in it." 

"That is not the question," said I. "I believe noth- 
ing but the truth is truly good for people. What do 
you believe?" 

"I don't believe I am immortal," he answered, "be- 
cause I see no reason to believe it." 

Florence said: "We must be immortal, because 
nothing dies, but is passed on. And there is some- 
thing in us — I mean that which loves and knows sym- 
pathy — which we do not pass on. So I think it must 
be immortal." 

Marian said: "I am, so I don't see how I could 
not be." 

I answered them: "Marian's and Florence's ideas 
seem to me very good. One cannot prove immor- 
tality. I have good reasons to believe it. But my 
best'reason is not a reason at all; and if you don't un- 
derstand it, I cannot explain it to you. If I am, I 
must be forever. 'I am' means immortality. That 
is what Marian said, and what I believe. If I believe 
in the whole Self of the universe, and that 
Self is in me, and I am in it, then how 
can I die unless that Self dies? And if I be- 
lieve in progress, which is toward complete under- 
standing and wholeness of the Self, how can that 
progress be without me who am a part of it? Do 
you know who Robert Ingersoll was? Well, he, who 



r 



Fifth Meeting J$ 

passed for such a scoffer — though in reality he ex- 
pressed only his own realization of his ignorance and 
his contempt for dogmatic faiths — once said: 4 I am 
a part of the world. Without me the world would 
be incomplete. In this there is hope.' Hope, he 
meant, of eternal life with the world." 

The children were much impressed. 

Marian said: "How can one face the horrible 
thought of extinction? It is unimaginable. What 
answer would you give," she asked, "to those people 
who claim that we are immortal only in our children, 
in the race? I never know what to answer them, 
and yet I feel sure they are not right." 

"I think there are two good answers," I said. 
"First, it is extremely unlikely that the race is im- 
mortal. Even if we thought our immortality unlikely, 
it is far more likely, and much less of an act of faith, 
to believe in it than to believe in race-immortality. 
We know that every planet dies and parches. We 
know that every race, every physical manifestation 
comes to an end, but we know that the spirit of life 
lives forever, and forever grows. I have heard people 
say that when this planet dries and freezes, men will 
have advanced so far in science that they will find 
their way in airships to another planet. But to me 
it seems far more unlikely than that the spirit of 
life, the self within us, should go on forever. The 
second answer seems to me to be Florence's answer, 
that we are not immortal in the race, that although 



j6 The Seekers 

we give our children much, we give to no one our 
power of love, of understanding, of sympathy." 

Henry asked: "Don't we give it through ex- 
ample and teaching?" 

"We give much," I said. "We can teach and 
train, but we give no one that understanding self, 
the power for love and sympathy, which is in us, and 
cannot be made." 

Henry did not see how one could find satisfaction 
in living for the race, since forever and ever each 
successive generation would be mortal and would dis- 
appear. 

I said I did not believe that in a world which to 
us was all intellect, the intellect could die. Then I 
read aloud the following passage from "John Percy- 
field," by C. Hanford Henderson: 

"It is an old mistake, that of calling desires beliefs. 
But I think I have allowed for this. I have said, if 
death end all, if that be the truth of it, then that is 
what I want to believe. For no man in his right 
senses wishes to be either self-deceived, or other- 
deceived. I have doubted immortality, even dis- 
believed it, but now I believe it on as strong warrant 
as I have for any of my scientific beliefs. In one 
sense, immortality cannot be experienced; it is not 
a fact of experience in the same immediate way that 
certain minor scientific facts are. But neither can the 
paleozoic age be experienced, nor space, nor time, nor 
cause and effect. They are inductions from experi- 
ence. And so to me is immortality. It is an indue- 



Fifth Meeting yy 

tion from experience. In a world where every reality 
is essentially spiritual, or intellectual, whichever term 
you prefer, where even the study of nature, as soon 
as it passes from mere observation into orderly 
science, becomes a mental rather than a physical fact, 
I can only imagine the disappearance of spirit by 
picturing the annihilation of the universe itself. With- 
out the mental part that we give to all of our so-called 
facts, they would cease to exist It is possible that 
the universe does shrivel up in this way and disappear, 
but it is less probable, I think, than any one of the 
great possibilities which science rejects, and feels war- 
ranted in accepting their opposite as fact." 

I said that to me as to him it seemed as if, were 
there not immortality for the self, the world itself 
might shrivel up and disappear. A world without 
immortality would be a mad world, without reason ; 
and, as everything else seems reasonable to me, I 
believe the world to be reasonable. I spoke, too, of 
the danger of believing things simply because we liked 
them. I told them how I had disbelieved in immor- 
tality at one time, because I suddenly found I had 
only believed what pleased me. 

Virginia said: "I believe things because I like 
them. But may not that liking, that feeling, in itself 
be a sign of truth?" 

"No," I answered; "liking is no proof or sign." 

Marian said: "But it is only because we care, be- 
cause we wish to believe, that we begin to think of 
these things." 



yS The Seekers 

u Yes," I replied, "we must care. But then we must 
bravely face the truth." 

Marian told us she had never been taught any- 
thing on this subject, but that gradually her belief 
had grown, and that her talks with Ruth had helped 
her from her ideas. 

I said many people believed in "personal" immor- 
tality; that is, immortality with memory, and the 
meeting of those we love. I do not pretend to know, 
or to have a definite opinion. But I think the results 
of life are eternal, even if not in precise memories. 
I asked the children for opinions. None of them 
seemed to believe, or care to believe, in distinct per- 
sonal immortality. 

Ruth said: "We would surely meet those we had 
loved, in that complete whole self, even though it 
were not as persons." 

I was surprised and glad to hear her say it. I 
had said to the children that they probably believed, 
and might easily believe, much beyond what I told 
them, but this was all which I believed; I would tell 
them no theories or surmises of mine, of which I 
could not feel certain. They were urgent in asking 
me please to tell them some theories, but I refused. 

Virginia said she believed in transmigration. I 
think it possible, as I told her ; it is in every way con- 
sistent with progress and all things in life, but I have 
no reason for feeling sure of it. She said: "It must 
be true, for if there is just so much spirit in the world, 
forever and ever, and if it must express itself through 



Fifth Meeting 79 

matter, how can there be anything but transmigra- 
tion ? Some time we may all live again on some other 
planet, in some other shape." I said it might be so. 

The children asked me whether I believed animals 
were immortal. I answered that as much life and 
self as is in them must be immortal. I observed that 
this idea of animal-immortality was consistent with 
Virginia's belief in transmigration, that so each least 
creature might rise through successive stages toward 
its complete self. 

Then I said to the children that, of course, if we 
believed we had been nothing before we were born, 
we could easily believe in extinction. But I, for one, 
believed, yes, knew, that I had been forever, that I 
was not "made" in these few years. 

"Yes," said Marian, "I could not have grown to 
be what I am, just since I was born." 

Henry said : "We are not concerned with the past, 
but with the future." 

Virginia, and the others, brought up instances of 
seeming to remember things from a former life, of 
feeling as if they had done some particular thing 
before, in the dim past. 

Alfred had not spoken at all during this time. He 
now said he very much wished he could believe in 
immortality, but could not see any reason for doing 
so. I said we should have to spend the next meeting 
in convincing Alfred. I went on: "If we believe 
in the vast Self of life, and if we are a part of that 
awakening Self, how can we die?" 



So The Seekers 

Then I read aloud Emily Bronte's "Last Lines." 
I was glad to leave the subject open in this fashion, 

to give them a week for thought, and I said little 

more. 



SIXTH MEETING 

I BEGAN by reading the children's papers. Vir- 
ginia wrote the following: 

"Some people have the idea that to pray means to 
fall upon one's knees, fold one's hands, lift one's 
eyes to heaven, and mutter some words one doesn't 
understand, sometimes in a foreign tongue. I don't 
agree with them. Unconscious prayer is the only 
true prayer; at least, so I believe. In a great crisis 
a man does not go on his knees, or, if he does, he is 
not praying what he is saying, which is a mere parrot- 
cry. His prayer is what he is thinking, and what is 
in his heart. 

"Many people say a prayer every night. In most 
cases this is not a true prayer, but still it brings peace 
and calmness, and it is lovely to be in a calm state 
before going to sleep. I think the reason for this 
is that the person who prays before going to sleep 
thinks himself so virtuous that he is at peace with the 
whole world. Then again, the person who goes to 
church every time he commits a sin, and prays for 
forgiveness, becomes careless of the wrong he does. 
For can he not pray and be forgiven without the least 
trouble?" 

We had a good laugh over Virginia's idea of 

81 



$2 The Seekers 

prayer, which seemed to be chiefly her idea of other 
people's prayer. 

Then I read Henry's paper: 

"Every man must decide for himself whether or 
not he shall pray, for no one else can tell him, since 
it is a matter of feeling. If a man is relieved by 
prayer, then let him pray; but if he only prays from 
habit, he is doing wrong. 

"We must not expect that our prayers will be an- 
swered by that superior power which we call God, 
for this will only happen when we make up our minds 
to gain our end, and put our heart and spirit in the 
work. There is a saying, 'God helps those who help 
themselves.' 

"Some people like to put their prayers in words, 
while others like to think them and feel them. Still 
others like to put out of their minds for a time all 
earthly troubles, and just think of and feel that kind- 
ness and sympathy for their fellow man ; and to think 
of the great spiritual questions which should have 
such great influence on the lives of everybody, and in 
this way let that spirit within them get complete con- 
trol of them, and that is their way of praying. 

"No one can say which way is the right way, but 
if you do it in that way which does you the most 
good, for you it will be the right way." 

Henry said he thought kneeling, and the attitude 
of prayer, were a "pretty" custom. They were the 
attitude of supplication. I questioned whether the 
best "prayer" was a supplication, said I did not like 



Sixth Meeting 83 

the word "prayer" for that reason. Virginia said 
she thought we often "felt" a supplication, even if we 
did not pray nor expect an answer. 

Marian had tried to get the "prayer-feeling" each 
night last week, but had not succeeded. She could 
not get calm, but thought of everything under the sun, 
and then fell asleep. 

Virginia said: "You can't make your mind a 
blank." 

I answered: "Making your mind a blank is not 
prayer." 

Henry thought it good to consider our spiritual 
problems just before going to sleep, and so get into 
the right state of mind. Ruth agreed. 

Now I read Marian's paper: 

"At a meeting of the Seekers on November 8th, we 
discussed the subject of Prayer. Prayer is really a 
feeling. When we feel truly in harmony with our 
inner and our bigger self, the feeling we have is 
prayer. Prayer can be made a source of strength. 
If we find some way to get into the prayer-feeling 
every day or at night, it will be a great help to us. 
As we reached a conclusion on this subject very soon, 
we began a discussion on Immortality, which we ex- 
pect to finish next week." 

Now we spoke of immortality. Although the six 
of us believed in it, by trying to convince Alfred we 
might gain much. 

I asked why, or whether, it was important to have 
an opinion concerning immortality. 



84 The Seekers 

Marian said it was important for us to know-, be- 
cause we were interested, because we cared so much, 
I answered, that was one reason, and then there was 
another. Ruth said the other reason was that we 
acted according to our ideas of death, that it in- 
fluenced our morality. 

"Yes," I answered, "we live according to our ex- 
pectations. Think of how the false or true ideas of 
a future life influenced morality in ages past, of the 
morals, good and bad, which sprang from the idea 
of heaven and hell! Alfred, do you think it is im- 
portant to know?" 

"Yes," said he, "it is important; but I can't come 
to any conclusion. I am not convinced." 

Some people feel sure one cannot know anything 
about immortality, and that therefore it is not worth 
thinking of it at all. 

Henry said: "Because one does not know a thing 
now is no reason why one should not try to find out. 
And I believe we shall know, some time. If people 
had felt so about other equally difficult things, we 
would never have got on." 

I said: "What is knowledge? We cannot know 
immortality as an experience, through our senses; but 
I believe we can know through our reason, just as 
so much other scientific knowledge is a matter of 
reason, of analogy, of deduction. It can't be proved, 
as one might prove that two and two are four. But 
then I once read in a book that nothing could be 
proved, except the things not worth proving. 



Sixth Meeting 85 

"If we saw a red rose, and we all called it a red 
rose, there would be no doubt of its redness. But 
if we differed, and some called it red, some pink, some 
yellow, we should soon be in grave doubt. Our eyes 
might be wrong. There have been so many opinions 
regarding immortality, because people had different 
'eyes,' that now we are full of doubts. " 

We spoke of the time when the earth was thought 
flat because it looked flat. 

Alfred said: "Immortality of what, do you 
mean?" 

"Immortality of everything," I answered. "We 
might, of course, believe that the universe will die, 
will be extinct. But it is an unthinkable thought. We 
all believe in something eternal. We know that force 
does not die, but is changed and transmitted; we 
know that no substance is destroyed; we know that 
every action, every circumstance has endless conse- 
quences and endless antecedents. They — and I — are 
forever a part of the universe. How could we be 
destroyed ? Why should we think that everything is 
immortal, excepting self, which seems the motive 
force?" 

Alfred said: "I don't believe it is destroyed; but 
it goes out of me, and that is the end of me." 

The others asked how Alfred could have agreed 
with us all so far, and not agree now, since it seemed 
to them that what we had said before, the idea of 
progress, implied immortality. How could he be- 
lieve in the Self as God, the vast Self which comes 



86 The Seekers 

to complete understanding, and yet believe that he, 
who was a part of it, that in him, and he in that, 
could be utterly destroyed? 

He said he believed new self was always coming 
into the universe, and old self going out. 

"Where would it come from, where would it go?" 
asked Virginia. 

I said : "There is nothing but the universe. Every- 
thing is in it." 

He answered that he believed in progress, progress 
toward unity and understanding, but it passed from 
one person to another ; it would not be himself. 

"How could the whole of Self be complete unless 
you were there?" I asked. 

"I can't believe it," he said. "I don't see how it 
could be. It would not be myself." 

"No, not you, in any definite sense, but self, and 
yourself in that. But it does not matter whether you 
disagree, if you can really go onward with us, and 
believe with us, without believing you are immortal. 
For all that matters is how we live now. It is not 
necessary to know the future, unless you need it for 
the present. When I say 'immortal 1 I mean we are 
immortal, now, because the universe is here." 

Ruth thought that life would be meaningless if we 
were not immortal; that all progress, all goodness 
would have no sense. She said: "One might live 
to do good, just to be kind to others, who were also 
mortal. But if that were the end, there would be 
no meaning in it." 



Sixth Meeting 87 

Henry agreed with her, and most of the others 
expressed similar ideas. I said this did not prove 
we were immortal. But I, too, felt a limited life to 
be meaningless. Still, I wanted to know the truth. 

Alfred saw he could not consistently believe in race 
immortality, but he wanted to. 

Virginia said: "You know the sun will burn down 
some time. Every fire burns itself out. Then the 
world will get cold and dark. And then what be- 
comes of the human race?" 

"But," I said, "the energy that was the sun will 
be in the universe, and will light other suns." 

"Energy never dies," said Virginia. "If I put out 
my arm like this," and she stretched forth her hand, 
"the energy that goes out from me never dies. It 
bounds and rebounds, and in some way goes on for- 
ever." 

"As it has been forever until now," I said. 

"No, I think it dies out," said Alfred. "If you 
bounce a ball, it bounds and rebounds and then stops." 

I explained to him how energy is not destroyed, 
but transmitted; how nothing is ever destroyed, but 
all things are changed. 

He believed the physical part changed and was not 
destroyed. Still, it was not life any more. 

He said: "It is not the same thing. I am myself 
now, but I am not the same person I was as a little 
child. I am all changed." 

"Yes," I answered him, "your body is different ma- 
terial, your brain and your thoughts are not the same, 



88 The Seekers 

your shape is changed, but you are still self, and you 
were self then." 

"But when I die, where will I be?" 

"I don't know," I said. "But I know that some- 
how you must be." 

Virginia and Alfred — in fact, all the children — had 
a long discussion. Alfred said, in speaking of a 
horse which had been buried in the woods, and over 
which ferns had grown, "but the ferns were not the 
horse" — a sensible remark. He said: "When you 
move your hand, the energy that goes onward is not 
the hand. And so, when I die, the.self that goes out 
of me may be a force, but it will go out of me, it will 
not be I." 

"But you yourself," I said, "are the life, the force, 
the self, which goes forth, which moves all things." 

Here the children, being left to themselves, went 
up into thin air. They argued the possibility of noth- 
ingness. Virginia told how when she was a little 
child she used to imagine what would happen if there 
were no earth. They each described how they couldn't 
imagine nothing, and what happened when they tried. 
Ruth told how one couldn't imagine perfect unity 
and understanding, either. I stopped them, and said 
it made not the least difference in any fact whether 
they could or couldn't imagine it. Virginia, the little 
artist and mystic, said she thought in childhood one 
touched the truth unconsciously. The others all 
denied this. I said it was a pleasant and comfortable 
thought. 



Seventh Meeting 89 

Now I said there was one other interesting thing 
I wanted to speak of, and that was memory. Most 
people believe we remember nothing from before 
birth. This is not true. Our whole body, our very 
being, is a memory. Florence said: "It is a race 
memory. Often we find it easy to do a thing we never 
did before, because our ancestors did it." 

"Yes," I answered, "instinct is a memory. The 
fact that we are here at all, our minds, our thinking, 
as well as our bodies, are a memory. We ourselves, 
our present bodies, are a consequence of the lives 
before us, a memory from the endless past." 

"We are what they lived," said Ruth, "as our 
bodies shall be what we live, not what we think on 
the surface, but what we live." 

"Yes," I answered, "but after a while we do live 
our thoughts." 

Henry said life was a repetition with progress. 
"But in the one-celled animal," he asked, "was life 
an expression of mind?" 

"I don't know," I said; "but it seems to me self 
or will must be at the bottom of all motion. I read 
a theory lately, in an 'evolution' book, that was very 
interesting. It is this : That consciousness or desire 
is the source of all development, and that lower crea- 
tures are conscious of acts which to us are automatic. 
The lowest creature, which is a mere bag or stomach, 
would then be conscious of itself, whereas in us the 
consciousness of primal organs is swamped and lost 
in our more intense nervous consciousness. Thus, 



90 The Seekers 

from the first, consciousness and will might be the 
source of progress, as they are now."* 

They all thought it a plausible and interesting 
theory. Marian said : 

"It seems likely. For do not babies have difficulty 
in walking, and are conscious of every step, whereas 
we do it almost automatically?" 

"Yes," I said ; "it might be the same with the race." 

I insisted that one could know the truth in certain 
directions, if one were willing to admit absolute ig- 
norance in others. I felt sure I was immortal, but I 
had not the least idea how. I would not build up a 
heaven, hell or universe of the dead, because all these 
conjectures were likely to be false. I said one could 
know much and learn more only by admitting one's 
limitations. 

Of course one could not know, I said, but I myself 
did not believe in personal immortality with definite 
memory. It might be so, or it might not. 

"I think it is not so," said Marian, "for we re- 
member nothing definite from before birth." 

"But," I said, "I feel sure that memory, the essence 
of memory, will go on ; just as our bodies and selves 
are a memory, so whatever we are in this life will 
have its consequences, and we will be forever accord- 
ing to what we are now. All progress is a memory — 
and a prophecy." 

I spoke, too, of the endless stream of every least 
action, how the least word, once spoken, is a spring 

*Cope , s theory, in " Darwinism To-day," Kcllog, p. 2lj. 



Seventh Meeting 91 

of eternal consequence, how each moment is tremen- 
dously important. I reminded Marian how she had 
once said school was so short, it did not much matter 
what one did; and I had answered her, all life was 
short. 

"Some people think actions under certain conditions 
— in foreign lands, for instance — do not count." 

Virginia said she lived to enjoy herself, no matter 
what death might be, but her enjoyment included 
making others happy. I said, that was the only good 
way to live, to enjoy oneself, and have a very big idea 
of what enjoyment meant. 

In talking we stumbled across difficult, confusing 
words, "God," "truth," "eternity." Ruth said: "We 
ought to invent a new language, a code of symbols, 
for everything in the old language has so many ac- 
quired meanings, is so used up." 

"We have made almost a code of our own," said 
Marian. 

Alfred had said nothing to let me know whether 
or not he had been convinced of immortality. It will 
be interesting to hear what he has thought during the 
week. 

We had now finished the first and fundamental 
part of what we meant to do; we would now test 
everything by that standard. 

"It is strange," said Marian, "how everything wc 
have said has sprung from just one thing." 



"What is that?" I asked. 
Our idea of God," I answered. 



a 



92 The Seekers 

I said that, according to my prediction, we scarcely 
found it necessary to use the word God. 

Marian answered: "It is because the word has 
so many meanings, is so easily misunderstood. But 
we know what we mean without saying it. My 
Sunday-school teacher said God took a personal in- 
terest in each one. I don't believe that," she went 
on, "except as we are in ourselves, and take an in- 
terest in ourselves. That idea of hers puts God, as 
it were, outside and apart." 

I questioned Ruth concerning Christian Science. 
She said our idea corresponded altogether with hers ; 
it was the application which would probably differ, 
and we had not yet spoken of that. "We will do so 
now," I answered. I asked the others if they would 
not like to have Ruth speak, in a meeting later on, 
of Christian Science. They all said that they would 
like it. 

Next we will consider art, creative genius, in re- 
lation to our idea. I was glad the children agreed 
with me in preferring this to moral disputations. I 
said I thought the longer we waited to speak of moral 
questions, the larger view we would take of them. I 
wanted to avoid pettiness. 

Our subject for next week grew naturally out of 
this week's talk. I said: "As a drop of water can 
be a sphere as perfect as the suns and planets, so each 
smallest thing, if it be perfect in itself, typifies the 
universe. You must realize that in an infinite uni- 
verse there is really no such thing as size." 



Sixth Meeting 93 

"There is only comparative size," said Virginia. 

"Yes," I answered; "and it is with this idea in mind 
that I wish to consider beauty, and the definite sepa- 
rate creation. I shall want to know next week what 
each of you means by beauty, or thinks beautiful." 

Marian — thinking of the personal side immediately 
— said : "I think it's because most people are homely, 
that we think some beautiful." 

We were amused at that. I said I did not mean 
personal beauty in particular. Then they asked, did 
I mean artistic beauty? I meant beauty in anything. 
I would want to know what made certain things seem 
beautiful to us. 

Virginia said: "I think there is nothing so beau- 
tiful as taking a deep, deep breath. That brings beau- 
tiful thoughts into my head, and makes everything 
right." 

This remark did not seem pertinent to any of us. 
Virginia insisted, too, that she thought a man was 
an artist, even if he could not express himself; that 
to have artistic thoughts made one an artist. I an- 
swered, it might be so; but a word itself was not 
good art unless it was a good expression, no matter 
what the artist might be. Virginia explained: "I 
mean an artist is more interesting than his work, 
sometimes." 

Florence said: "A beautiful thing — in art — is a 
complete thing, complete and perfect in itself." 

"I don't think so," answered Virginia. "If you 
were to sketch a tree — without finishing it at all — * 



< 



94 The Seekers 

and that sketch were your whole idea of the tree as 
you saw it, then it would be no sketch, but a finished 
picture. A thing is a sketch until you have altogether 
expressed your idea. But then, no matter how sketchy 
it may look, it is finished." 

I had to interpret Florence to Virginia. I said: 
"Florence did not mean completeness in the sense of 
exactness. She meant that the tree, no matter how 
indicated, must seem to us so complete, in a world of 
its own, as to leave nothing lacking or intruding; 
that everything in the picture is there in relation to 
the tree, and the whole makes a perfect little world. 
If there were suggestions of other things which had 
nothing to do with the tree, such as there always are 
in life, it would not be a perfect picture. You said 
it must be a complete expression of the artist's 
thought. That is just the completeness Florence 
means. It must be a complete, self-sufficient har- 
monious vision of a tree. And harmony means whole- 
ness, doesn't it?" 

"For instance," said Florence, "even the smallest 
and most trivial poem would be beautiful if it were 
perfect in itself — and complete. Take Leigh Hunt's 
'Jenny Kissed Me,' such a little thing, and yet beau- 
tiful, telling the delights of a kiss. And then take 
'Faust,' which is much larger and deeper; and yet 
each is perfect in its way, though 'Faust' expresses 
so much more." 

"Have you read 'Faust'?" I answered her. 

"No," she said, "but I know all about it." / knew 



Sixth Meeting 95 

that she had got her ideas ready-made from "brother 
Arthur/' and I was amused. But I did not wish to be 
hurried into the midst of my subject without begin- 
ning at the beginning, so I cut the discussion as short 
as might be. 

Marian said: "I don't understand what they 
mean." 

I told her she would understand when we had 
talked it over, that I only wanted her, before next 
week, to settle her own ideas as to what she thought 
beautiful. 

Florence repeated: "Beauty is completeness." 

"I think," said Marian, "I begin to see what Flor- 
ence means by that. Like the drop of water." 

I like to suggest the subject for the following week 
at the close of each meeting, and, if possible, to speak 
enough of it to give them a starting-place for their 
thoughts. 



SEVENTH MEETING 

Ruth brought with her a "Christian Science" 
prayer. I said I would read it aloud at the meeting 
on Christian Science. One line in the prayer was, 
"purified from the flesh." Ruth guessed, before I 
said anything, that I objected to this line. She be- 
lieves the body is "something to be overcome." All 
the others and myself disagreed with her. 

I said: "I, who believe in endless progress, be- 
lieve the means themselves to be good and wonder- 
ful. Unless this moment were good, nothing it led 
to could be wholly good." 

Ruth said: "The body is something unreal, unes- 
sential, which we do not keep." 

I answered: "We keep nothing but what we al- 
ways possessed, the power of growth." Ruth says 
we get certain new truths, and then keep them. She 
tries to think that my idea and Christian Science agree 
in every way, except that we use different language. 
But she has doubts and qualms. Then we spoke of 
"New Thought." I said I thought most of what is 
called so was unanswerably true, only there seemed 
to be an enmity between "New Thought" and good 
English. Marian agreed with me. She said she 
could have no respect for a man who used poor 

96 



Seventh Meeting 97 

English. I would not say that, for I had received 
too much information from men who did not know 
how to give it. But, I said, I had often missed in- 
formation rather than rewrite a book for myself 
mentally, before I could read it. Marian's father 
had read aloud to her, from a "New Thought" book, 
this sentence: "The seen is unreal, and the unseen is 
real." 

"I don't believe that," she said. "Do you?" 

"No," I answered; "I believe everything is real, 
the seen and the unseen. There is nothing but 
reality." 

I also said my chief objection to all these cults was 
that they insisted too often on physical health as the 
aim of life. Virginia said: "But just think, if we 
had not to be concerned about our bodies any more, 
if we were perfectly well, how much we could do!" 

"Yes," I answered, "that is true; but still it is 
not an end, but only a means." 

This was all before the meeting. Alfred had 
come very early, as usual, and told me he "thought" 
he believed as I did concerning immortality. 

I opened the meeting by reading Marian's paper: 

"On Sunday, November 15th, the Seekers held a 
regular meeting. Our discussion was on Immor- 
tality. Most of us agreed that our self, our real or 
inner self, is immortal. In the first place, if this 
self in us and in every one should die there would be 
nothing left, because that is the real, the life-giving 
power. Moreover, if we were not immortal, what 



98 The Seekers 

would be the use of life? Some people argue that 
we leave part of ourselves and the impressions of our 
characters to other generations, and so on. However, 
science has (almost) proved that the race is not im- 
mortal, and at least, it is harder to believe that it is, 
than to believe in the immortality of the real self. 
Personally, I feel that my real self is immortal, and 
that I will go on being. We do not attempt to pic- 
ture any future state. This discussion is the only 
one in which we did not all agree." 

Next I read Henry's paper : 

"To-day we continued our tallc on Immortality. 
Immortality is entirely a matter of faith, but the dif- 
ferent ideas concerning it have influenced the fates of 
nations. 

"The mind realizes so much that it does not ac- 
complish, that it seems as though there must be a 
continuance of spiritual action after what we call 
death. If the spirit did not continue to exist, what 
would be the purpose of our life? Some say our pur- 
pose is to pave the walk of life for our descendants. 
Indeed, we do want those who come after us to find 
life pleasant and worth while living, but that alone 
would not be a sufficient purpose, for why need there 
be descendants? Why was there anybody in the be- 
ginning? And besides this, we have more reason 
to believe in the mortality of the race than for any 
of our beliefs in regard to the soul. Science teaches 
us that certain of the planets, which were once habit- 
able, are now no longer so. This may some day hap- 



Seventh Meeting 99 

pen to our planet, and then the race for which we 
have worked will cease to be. Although we do live 
for the race, we live more for the spirit. We have 
already said that we are part of one great union. If 
this is true there must be immortality, for when part 
of the spirit ceased to be, there would no longer be 
a great, perfect union." 

I said to Henry: "Your papers never begin as 
if they were going to be right, but they end especially 
well. You always keep the best for the last." 

Now we went on to our subject of beauty. What, 
I asked, was the one truly beautiful perfect thing, the 
thought of which gives us more delight than any 
other? 

They said — bit by bit — that it was complete un- 
derstanding, unity, sympathy. 

I said I believed every beautiful thing was one 
which symbolized this completeness, something that 
in itself seemed complete and perfect and fulfilled. 
It took some time to explain this. Florence, of 
course, already understood it. Virginia and Marian 
caught at it as a new and elusive and valuable idea. 
All except Henry saw what I meant. Marian had 
said, even before I expressed this idea, that beauty 
was symmetry. 

Henry said: "I don't see what you mean, or why 
you need question it. A beautiful thing is one that 
gives us a thrill of delight." 

"Yes," I answered, "certainly. That is like say- 
ing a thing is red because it has a red color. What 



ioo The Seekers 

I want to know is why things delight us with their 
beauty, so that we may make a standard from these, 
whereby to judge all things." 

I stopped them when they began to speak of spe- 
cial works of art, because, I insisted, we would first 
speak of beauty in all things in the world. 

Virginia said: "When I am in a field among 
animals, playing with them all, that to me seems 
beautiful. I do feel sympathy with them, but it 
isn't completeness." 

"No," I answered, "and it isn't beautiful, though 
it is delightful in another way. Beauty is something 
apart from us, which we see and hear, and which 
wakes in us a sense of completeness, of harmony with- 
in itself, as if there were the whole world, nothing 
lacking, nor yet too much. A landscape, for in- 
stance." 

"It is sometimes not beautiful at all," said Henry. 

"No," I answered, "surely not. A landscape, no 
matter how beautiful and wonderful, would be spoiled 
by a big sign on the nearest tree, advertising 'Bab- 
bitt's Soap.' " 

"Or a sign 'To Let,' " said Henry. 

"Yes," I answered, "though that might not be as 
bad, yet that, too, would be inharmonious, and sug- 
gest all sorts of irrelevant things." 

"But," said Henry, "a burnt wood is harmonious, 
I suppose, and yet it would be ugly." 

"Not always," said I, "not if it were blended into 
the landscape, and mellowed." 



Seventh Meeting ioi 

"No," Henry answered, "perhaps not, if the col- 
ors were beautiful." 

"But if it were ugly," I said, "it would be inhar- 
monious. A newly burnt forest suggests death and 
desolation in the midst of life and summer — an in- 
congruity. It suggests destruction where the thought 
is most unwelcome and horrible." 

u Then," said Marian, "it is not the thing itself, 
but the feeling which it gives us, that is beautiful." 

"Yes," I said, "it gives us the thrill of that com- 
plete joy. We seem to see something which is what 
cannot be; complete harmony. The sight of the sea 
makes Virginia feel so. And you, the out-of-doors." 

Virginia said: "I have sometimes thought beauty 
is light, because the sun is most beautiful — and, at 
night, the moon." 

"But," said I, "if there were no shadows and no 
darkness, sun and moon would not be beautiful." 

"Then contrast?" she asked. 

I said: "There must be contrast in all beautiful 
things, because without contrast we could not have 
completeness." 

Yes," she said, "in pictures it is so." 
[ A small thing," I went on, "might symbolize com- 
pleteness, as well as a large one. A dog, in his way, 
a beautiful Scotch collie, for instance, might be as 
beautiful as a man." 

"Yes, indeed," said Ruth. 

We criticized, and found lacking, according to our 
standard, the beauty of prize bulldogs ; the teeth were 



a- 



102 The Seekers 

too suggestive of strife and biting, the spots un- 
symmetrical, and so on. They spoke of many in- 
stances of beauty in things, especially the beauty of 
little children, and fitted them to this new standard. 

Marian said: "A drop of water is so symmetrical 
and harmonious, so beautiful in the sunshine; and 
yet, on a dark day, on the sidewalk, it is not beauti- 
ful." 

I explained even that. I showed her how a drop 
on the sidewalk was not a drop, but a daub, how it 
suggested all sorts of ugly and incongruous things. 
"But," I said, "if we take the trouble to look at a 
drop hanging from anything, say from a leaf, Ave 
shall always find it beautiful." 

She agreed to that. Then she said: "Don't you 
think we sometimes do think of our own life as a 
beautiful thing?" 

"Yes," I answered. "There are moments when 
our own life suddenly seems complete, when we feel 
an artist's delight in it, and for a while we, and the 
whole world with us, seem to have reached what we 
longed for." 

Florence asked: "Don't you think it is usually 
when we are having a very good, jolly time?" 

Marian answered quickly: "No, not at all." 

I understood what Marian meant, and did not at- 
tempt, naturally, to explain it to the others. 

Now we all agreed, every one of us, that com- 
pleteness and harmony were beauty. But the chil- 
dren had started time and again to bring up in- 



Seventh Meeting 103 

stances in art which to them seemed not to fit, and 
which they thoroughly misunderstood. 

u You see," I said, "that the beautiful thing is the 
same as that which seems to us most true and good." 

Marian said again that one idea seemed to cover 
everything, and that we came to conclusions quickly. 

"Now I will tell you," I said, "what I mean by 
art and the artist. In speaking of art here to-day I 
mean not only painting — as one of you thought — 
but everything which expresses beauty; poetry, the 
novel and drama, sculpture, music, acting. You see 
the difference- between science and art?" 

"Science gives us knowledge," said Marian. 

u Yes," I answered, "or, rather, science gives us 
facts, truths, but never at all the complete truth. It 
gives us parts as parts, never the whole. Philosophy, 
on the other hand, does what we are doing here. It 
reaches out for the complete whole, for understand- 
ing, for unity, but it knows well that it can never 
attain the end. It reaches out for the complete good, 
and is satisfied with nothing less than that unat- 
tainable whole. But art does another thing; it tells 
us a lie — the most wonderful lie in the world — truer 
than any truth. It says : Look, here is completeness, 
harmony, wholeness, in this one small shape. And 
w r e know it cannot be so, but still we feel it to be 
there. That lie gives us, as no truth can, the thing 
we long for, and know to be most true. 

"Now, what do you mean by the word genius? 
What is genius?" I asked. 



lA^tu 



104 The Seekers 

"Usually," said Virginia, "a genius is a crank. 
There is a girl in my art class who is the frousiest, 
queerest crank in the world, and every one calls her 
a genius." 

"Geniuses are often queer," said Henry. 

Ruth said, too, that many geniuses were anything 
but great and good in their private lives. 

"Well," I answered, "I am surprised by your defi- 
nition of a genius. But perhaps you will be more 
surprised, and sorry you said so much, when I tell 
you that I consider every one of you a genius." 

"Oh, my," said Virginia, "how nice! I wish I 
were." 

I said: "What we usually call genius is but a 
larger power of understanding, a sense of jjtfty, of 
the relations of things. And we all have that, in some 
degree. So we all have genius. It is not a matter 
of quality but of quantity. We are all the same stuff, 
only some more and some less." 

Henry said I might use the word in that sense, but 
he didn't think it was the true meaning. He said: 
"What definition is in the dictionary?" We had no 
dictionary at hand, so I tried to prove my definition 
true without a dictionary, and I succeeded. 

I said: "There is no gulf between the genius and 
the stupid looker-on. Don't you see why there could 
not be?" 

"I see," said Marian; "it is because the looker-on 

would have to have some genius, or else " She 

could not finish. 



Seventh Meeting 105 

"Just so, Marian," I went on; "or else he could 
not appreciate the artist's work. It is the genius in 
the onlooker that appreciates the genius in the artist. 
And in so far as you can appreciate the genius of 
Shakespeare, in so far you have the same sort of 
genius." 

"Then," said she, "art makes us recognize our- 
selves." 

"Yes," I answered, "our bigger selves." 

"So one might speak," she said, "of a person de- 
veloping his genius for music, or his genius for paint- 
ing, and so on?" 

"Yes," I answered; "and you see how easily and 
well one can use the word in that sense." 

Ruth asked : "If the great genius is really one who 
understands better than the rest of us, and has a 
more harmonious vision, how is it that so many 
geniuses are incomplete and very imperfect in their 
personal lives?" 

"I think it is," I said, "for the same reason that 
I gave you for disease in highly developed beings." 

"I see," said Marian; "it is one part developed at 
the expense of another." 

They wanted to know why so many artists were 
peculiar, erratic, "Bohemian" — Marian used that 
word. Virginia spoke again of the happy-go-lucky 
people down at the art league. 

I said I thought one reason for this manner among 
artists was that, as they were always looking for 
the new, the beautiful — which is ever new — they had 



lo6 The Seekers 

no patience with so-called respectable people, who 
clung to old things because they were old, and so 
these artists often purposely went to the other ex- 
treme. 

I said: u You must see that there is the tendency 
in all of us to make of life a work of art, to live a 
complete, beautiful life-'^ 

"I know some people," said Virginia, "whose lives 
do not seem to me in the least artistic." 

"That may be," I answered, "but the tendency is 
there to make of life a complete expression." 

"That isn't all I mean," said Marian. "I want 
to know what is meant by the artistic temperament." 

"It is in great part," I said, "a fiction and a false 
generalization. Many experts have not the artistic 
temperament, and many not-artists have it. As for 
artists going astray more often than others, if that 
be true — which I doubt — there's a good reason for 
it. Artists are always very sensitive — naturally — 
and so, unless they are very strong-willed, too, they 
will be more easily swayed by outside events and 
their impressions." 

"I don't believe every one has genius," Virginia 
said. "I know some people who are perfectly stupid, 
and don't understand anything." 

"That is scarcely possible," I answered, "if they 
are human beings." 

"Do you mean to say," asked Henry, "that you 
know any utterly selfish person?" 

"Yes," she answered; "or, at least, people who are 



Seventh Meeting 107 

not interested In anything worth while outside them- 
selves; people who can walk through an art gallery 
and not look at the pictures; who love nothing beau- 
tiful." 

"I may be one of those," said Ruth, "for I do not 
care for pictures. " 

"One's genius might not be developed in that par- 
ticular direction," I said; "none of us are developed 
in all directions. But grant, at least, Virginia, that 
your most stupid people have undeveloped genius 
which might be awakened." 

"All right," she said. 

"Because if you don't," I answered, "I shall think 
your understanding of those people is very limited. 
Genius does not necessarily show itself in relation to 
art, to the sense of beauty. Genius is in the under- 
standing a man must have to be a man. How could 
he have any relations with his fellows, any intercourse 
without some understanding? 

"But there is one essential difference between the 
genius of the looker-on and the genius of the artist; 
it is that the artist creates, that he must have talent. 
No matter how much genius a man may have, if he 
does not or cannot express his genius, he is not an 
artist." 

"Do you think," asked Marian, "that an artist 
knows himself to be a great genius?" 

"I think," I answered her, "that no man ever does 
a great thing unless he first believes he can do it. 

"You remember, I once said that to understand 



io8 The Seekers 

life well one must be creative, one must do things, 
because life is forever creating. And so the genius 
who is an artist, who has talent, who creates, by that 
very creation understands better than other men. He 
who can draw a thing sees it better than he who 
cannot." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "the fact that he can draw 
it proves that he sees it better." 

"And in learning to draw it," I went on, "he came 
to see it better." 

"The great artist," said Henry, "is one who ex- 
presses his idea perfectly." 

"Then," Virginia said, "I wonder if I will ever 
get to be a great artist. For the thing I draw is 
never the thing that was in my mind." 

"Now," said I, "you see the distinction between 
genius and talent. Genius is the power of under- 
standing. Talent is the power of expression. A man 
may have very little to say, and yet say it wonder- 
fully well. And another man may have much to say, 
and marvellous understanding of life, but not nearly 
so great power of expression. That is what Florence 
meant the other day, when she spoke of 'Jenny Kissed 
Me,' and of 'Faust.' But the man who expresses 
even the smallest thing well understands, at least, 
that thing. The power of expression itself implies 
understanding and a sense of unity and harmony. 
For no matter how well a man may be able to draw 
lines and objects, unless he understands composition — 
which is the knowledge of harmony and complete- 



Seventh Meeting 109 

ncss — he cannot paint a good picture. And no mat- 
ter how well a man may write English, however 
perfect his style may be, unless he understands some- 
thing of life, of symmetry and structure, he cannot 
write a good book." 

Henry said: "Poe expressed himself very welL 
Was he a genius?" 

"Now, stop," I answered. "Don't ask, 'Was he 
a genius?' Of course, he was that. We all have 
genius. The question is, how much?" 

"It seems to me," said Henry, "that in some way 
Poe was as great as Shakespeare." 

"Yes," I said, "in some ways; and that is a very 
good example. Poe's power of expression may have 
been as great in some ways as Shakespeare's. But 
just think how immeasurably greater was Shakes- 
peare's genius, his understanding, and grasp of life !" 

"Poe, for instance," said Henry, "was a great 
mathematician, and used his deductions in his stories." 

The others told Henry this had nothing to do with 
his genius. They had a long talk on the relative 
genius — that is, understanding of life — of Poe and 
Hawthorne, and brought up many instances. 

Marian said: "Was Milton a great genius?" 

"What do you think?" I asked. 

"I suppose he was," she said, "but I don't think 
he had a great understanding of human life." 

"Have you read 'Paradise Lost'?" I asked her. 

"Yes," she answered. 

"Then you must have noticed his wonderful sym~ 



1 10 The Seekers 

pathy with, and understanding of, the devil himself. 
He saw the tremendous contrasts of life, and under- 
stood them." 

"I must read that," said Virginia, "if he wrote 
with understanding sympathy of the devil. Don't 
you think," she asked, u that those who write books 
for children generally understand life very well, and 
have true genius?" 

"Perhaps," I said. "What do you think? How 
about those artists who write for children in the 
Sunday comic papers?" 

Now I spoke of the artist in us all, who sees 
things ever as distinct wholes, who picks out, as he 
goes through life, complete visions of beauty to re- 
produce in his mind. These visions have to be dis- 
tant, separate from himself. For life is so distract- 
ing and full of contradictory passions, so vast, and, 
as we know it- in our limited lives, so incomplete, that 
we must get rid of it, we must separate ourselves, 
with our universal and unfinished relations, from the 
perfect and whole beauty which we wish to see in 
the artistic vision. 

"You must have noticed," I said, "and you have 
often heard, that far-off things are most beautiful. 
It is because our life, interwoven with endless dis- 
tracting circumstances, does not seem to touch those 
far-off things." 

"Autumn leaves," said Marian, "far off looE so 
beautiful, and near by are full of imperfections." 

Virginia said: "And perfection of detail in a pic- 



Seventh Meeting ill 

ture, as if the things were very near and real, does 
not make it better. It does not seem good. You 
know Millet's 'Sower,' at the Metropolitan Museum: 
when you go close, it is all streaks." 

"This dimness of detail is for two reasons, in 
most great pictures," I said. "First, the artist often 
paints a picture with the intention of having it looked 
upon from a distance. Second, in the perfect whole, 
detail is merged. All must blend and harmonize." 

"I never thought of that," said Virginia. "The 
too precise details in a picture attract a person's at- 
tention, and want to be looked at for their own sake, 
and so break in on the harmony and wholeness of 
the picture." 

"Yes, just so," I answered. I spoke again of the 
sublime lie of art — the untruth which is most true. 
I said: "I once had an English teacher who used to 
tell us that in art one was not to give the truth, but 
the impression of truth. Truths often break in and 
destroy the impression of that whole truth. 

"Now," I asked, "what is the one, the only object, 
of art in the world?" 

We decided, all of us, that it was complete under- 
standing and sympathy. Art is a symbol of that com- 
pleteness for which our whole life longs. One of 
them — I think it was Henry — said its aim was prog- 
ress. I said it was rather the picturing and prophecy 
of the end and aim of progress itself. 

They had probably heard, I said, of "art for art's 
sake," the cant of those who believed mere form and 



U2 The Seekers 

expression to be the whole of art, and left out 6i 
account the thing expressed. Virginia misunderstood 
me to say: "Art for its own sake," quite a different 
thing. So, thinking I would agree with her, she 
quoted, with disapproval, an article by Kenyon Cox, 
paying: "He who worked for gold sold himself, and 
he who worked for fame was utterly lost." I said 
I quite agreed with him; that unless one worked first 
of all for the sake of expression, and the joy of it, 
he was no artist. 

"And, meanwhile, his wife and children might be 
starving," she answered. 

"It is praiseworthy," I said, "to support one's 
wife and children, but it has nothing to do with 
Art." 

I said a man might well use his expression to 
£arn himself bread; that it was necessary and natural, 
and had often even spurred a man on to work, but 
that it could not be his first aim if he were an artist. 
We spoke of Shakespeare, and of Goldsmith, and of 
their writing under the stress of poverty. I pointed 
out how, nevertheless, these men wrote of the things 
they loved and understood, and how the joy of work 
must have been their first aim. 

I spoke of play, and of art being like play; of the 
old saying: "Work first, then play." 

Henry said that was meant for little children. 

I told them how scientists tried to explain play by 
calling it a preparation for work. Virginia liked 
that idea. I said that I thought work a preparation 



Seventh Meeting 113 

for play, that play, interplay, the joy of creation,, was 
life itself. The children easily understood play in 
this sense of the beloved work. Virginia said her 
work was all play. I reminded her that she might 
have to work hard, but she would do it gladly for the 
sake of that play. Marian said her school-work was 
almost always play. Ruth said: "I think play and 
work are the same thing, and that we human beings 
have made the distinction of words." 

Art cannot rightly have any object but whole rep- 
resentation, but expression of the understanding of 
life. I said that whenever art tried to be moral — 
which was rather the business of philosophy — it lost 
thereby; that whenever one took sides for a thing, 
one took sides against something else, and had lost 
the completeness and symmetry of art. 

Henry said he thought art ought to teach a lesson. 

I answered: "Art ought to show us the whole of 
life, which is beautiful." 

Virginia spoke of Dickens 1 novels, and said she 
thought those were best in which he wrote with an 
object, and against an abuse. 

I answered her that they were best and also worst. 
They were best because he described in them the life 
which he knew and loved. But the parts of these 
very good novels which were directed against any 
people or institutions were always bad, inartistic, in- 
congruous. As an example I quoted the dreary dis- 
sertations on Chancery in "Bleak House," and those 
who had read it immediately agreed with me. 



H4 The Seekers 

Henry and Virginia questioned me several times 
concerning ugly pictures which were considered "good 
art." I told them that a subject not usually thought 
beautiful, an old, old woman, for instance, might be 
made beautiful by the artist's insight. I did not 
go into details, however, to-day. A great many 
ugly pictures, such as the work of Teniers, Steen, 
and others, seem to me very bad art. But now I 
spoke to them of Wiertz, the Belgian, who seems 
to me no artist at all, and concerning whom they had 
both questioned me. I took as an example of bad 
partisan art his picture of Napoleon in hell, with 
crowds of poor people making faces at him, and pelt- 
ing him with brimstone. Such a subject in itself is 
impossible to art. What could be more unintelligent, 
petty, scattered and ugly ! 

Ruth said she did not see why an artist need un- 
derstand human nature especially well unless he was 
one who treated of human nature; that a musician, 
for instance, need not do so. I began my answer, but 
gave way to a burst of enthusiasm from Henry. 

How, said he, could a musician not understand 
human nature, he who knew how to rouse us to the 
depths with his notes, who could move us to tears? 
Surely he knew what he was doing, and the heart 
which he stirred. 

Ruth said she did not see why Shakespeare showed 
greater understanding or completeness in his work 
than Emerson, for instance. Henry thought the 
same. I tried to show them that Emerson in his 



Seventh Meeting 115 

essays was not an artist — or, at least, not nearly so 
much of an artist as a philosopher — that he strove 
to reach the good, the complete harmony of the uni- 
verse, but that he did not give us the vision of a 
present, finished, concrete beauty. They both main- 
tained that he did. Henry spoke of the essays on 
"Friendship" and "Manners." 

"Have you read the essay on 'Manners' ?" he asked. 

"Yes, several times," I said. 

"And doesn't it give you a picture?" he asked. 
Ruth added: "And the one on friendship. I seem 
to see that friend." 

I owned I did not feel so. I said it gave me an 
inspiration, an ideal of conduct, not a picture. "Mind 
you," I said, "when I call Emerson more philosopher 
than artist, I am not saying philosophy is less than 
art." 

"No, I understand that," said Ruth, "but I, for 
one, when I read Shakespeare, get not any especial 
feeling of the completeness or whole understanding 
of what I read. Emerson uplifts me much more, and 
gives me power to do things." 

"That may be," I said. "You may rate either as 
high or as low as you please, but their genius is dif- 
ferent." 

I pointed out, too, how in Emerson's poetry, with 
its rare, beautiful couplets, and its many lapses, the 
genius and philosopher far outshone the man of 
artistic talent. We had not time to go into detail, 
or to quote largely, and I did not wish to speak much 



n6 The Seekers 

of literary criticism and methods at this meeting, for 
I had planned to do so at the next, so I think Henry 
and Ruth went home unconvinced of the artistic 
superiority of Shakespeare over Emerson. One might 
almost as profitably argue who was a greater man, 
Beethoven or Napoleon! 

Marian asked me whether George Eliot was an 
artist or a philosopher. I told her I thought she was 
both, but that I believed she would have been more 
of an artist had she been less a philosopher. 

I asked Alfred why he had kept so silent Did 
he agree with us? 

"Yes," he said, "I do. It is very interesting. But 
I don't talk unless I disagree." 



EIGHTH MEETING 

Henry came several days ago to tell me he would 
be unable to attend this meeting, as he was going to 
Washington. "I will think of the subject we were 
going to discuss,' ' he said. 

I opened the meeting with Marian's paper : 

"At a meeting of the Seekers, held on November 
2 2d, we discussed the relation which our previous 
discussions had to Art. We set up a standard for 
judging Art, and agreed that a good piece of Art is 
one that makes us feel that unity and completeness 
for which we are striving. Two things are neces- 
sary, a good thought and good workmanship. We 
also said that details in Art, particularly in painting, 
are bad because they distract us, and we don't see 
the picture as a whole. I was very glad to have a 
standard by which to judge Art." 

I said to her that I hardly thought she could al- 
ready have that standard. 

"No," she said, "but I am going to get it." 

Then I read Virginia's paper : 

"Art as it is connected with our previous discus- 
sions: 

"When an artist dies he leaves behind him all the 
beautiful ideas he has put on his canvas, or in his 

117 



1 1 8 The Seekers 

books. To be a true artist one must possess an idea 
of the beautiful, and also be sympathetic with all his 
fellow beings. Not only humans, but flowers and 
beasts also. A person who possesses these qualities 
is a genius. But to be an artist one must also have 
talent. Either he must have a talent for writing, 
music or painting, or he cannot express the genius 
within himself. 

"This sympathy, this love, is something we cannot 
explain. And so we call it the soul, because it is a 
puzzle, and we do not know what it is. Everybody 
possesses some of it, even the most heartless. It 
may be the love of a plant or dumb animal, but still 
it is love for a fellow creature. So all of us possess 
genius, though few of us are artists." 

Next I read Alfred's paper : 

"On Sunday, the 22d, we discussed the subject of 
art. We said that for a thing to be high art it must 
be pleasing to the eye or ear, and complete in itself; 
that is, the artist or composer must so construct his 
work that it will fully express some idea. In painting 
a picture an artist may choose to convey some grue- 
some idea, and do so perfectly, but that will not be 
high art, because it will be displeasing to the eye. 

"It may also be applied to books; if the author 
tells something so well that it gives the reader a per- 
fect picture of the thought, the writing may be con- 
sidered a good one." 

I said I could tell by Alfred's paper that he had 
not grasped just what was the object of art. The 



Eighth Meeting 119 

children repeated that it symbolized the unity for 
which we longed. I asked, did they see why we took 
up this subject of art at all, what it had to do with 
religion? Marian had said, before the others came, 
that it was the expression of our religion. Virginia 
now used almost the same words, and Alfred, speak- 
ing after her, said it in such a way as to make me 
believe he understood. 

I replied, this was true; art was the service of 
religion, the expression of that sense of oneness with 
the world which can speak only in creations, because 
life is an endless creation. Beauty, I said, seemed 
to me the perfect symbol of truth, of completeness 
and symmetry. I quoted the lines from Keats: 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." 

"The subject of beauty always puzzles me," said 
Ruth, "because beautiful things so often are not good. 
Take the ocean, for instance. It is so beautiful; it 
gives us above all things the sense of immensity and 
harmony. And yet, think how cruel it is! Think 
of the shipwrecks and the suffering!" 

"It is not the ocean's fault," said Virginia. "That 
is because we are adventurous and go out in ships." 

"Yes," I answered, "and we are willing to take 
the chance and pay the price. But surely you do not 
think of the ocean as cruel, as either good or bad. 
Beauty is not in anything, but is in the vision of him 



120 The Seekers 

who beholds it. It is a momentary vision of the 
completeness of life." 

"Beauty is always a thing of moments. Don't you 
think so?" asked Marian. "It depends upon you. 
At one time you may see a thing as beautiful, and at 
another time not." 

"Surely," I said. 

"Why is it," she asked, "that some people cannot 
appreciate beauty in one special form, either in music, 
or painting, or poetry?" 

I said: "Our senses are channels through which 
we get the feeling of beauty. But no matter whence 
the feeling comes, it is that same joy. One man finds 
it in a picture, and another in a symphony, and an- 
other in the woods. Do you know those two lines 
by William Blake: 

Who knows but every bird that cleaves the air 
Is an immense world of delight closed by our senses 
five.' 

"There may be other senses than ours which bring 
the same message. Helen Keller hears and sees it 
with her fingers in her world of darkness. 

"Throughout the centuries," I went on, "in all be- 
ginnings and primitive times, art was the expression 
of religion. The first rude drawings were religious 
symbols; drama and the dance and music were re- 
ligious ; and all the oldest literature in the world, the 
Vedas, the Bible, and the old Scandinavian myths 



Eighth Meeting 121 

were religious books: the Greek drama, and — can 
you think of others?" 

They brought forth many instances; Marian men- 
tioned the English miracle plays, and Virginia spoke 
of American Indian drawings, saying, however, that 
they were more often used for communication. I 
showed her how the first rude figures of animals, the 
totems, for instance, were also used as religious sym- 
bols. 

I spoke, too, of the way in which art related us 
with great minds in ages past. "Ruskin mentions 
that," said Ruth and Marian. 

"But it is a one-sided relation," I said, "for we 
cannot speak to them." 

"I wish we could," answered Marian. "I so 
often wish I could ask them questions." 

We said again how hard it was, when asked, to 
explain to outsiders the purpose of our club. Ruth 
said : "When I try to tell people, they answer : 'Oh, 
yes, I suppose you just talk nonsense, and have a good 
time.' " 

Marian said people wondered that she was willing 
to stay in-doors on Sunday afternoons. 

Virginia said: "I don't tell any one of it." 

I suggested to them that if one got a perfect stand- 
ard of beauty in art, it might be all one would need 
as a moral standard to make one's life beautiful in 
the same way. 

Now we spoke of the novel. I said I had noticed 
that last week when I told them of completeness in 



122 The Seekers 

novels and plays, they seemed not to know just what 
I meant. Florence said she knew. "It means," she 
said, "that every word and every person and every 
incident must count. It must not be like life, where 
distracting and unimportant things are always hap- 
pening." 

"Just so," I answered. She had learned all that 
from brother Arthur. 

I went over it more explicitly, citing instances, and 
then told them that we were all of us story-tellers, 
in the sense that we tried to make every story com- 
plete. 

"In telling anything that has happened," I said, 
"we naturally leave out anything that has no effect 
on the story." 

"And," added Florence, "we unconsciously make 
up little details that help to fill out the story." 

"Now," said Marian, "I think I must forgive some 
one I know, who is always exaggerating." 

"I know some one who does it all the time," said 
Florence. 

"I don't think that makes it right, though," Ruth 
protested. 

"No," I answered, "not right, but not wrong, 
either. When we realize the artist's tendency in us 
all to turn everything into a story, first, we will not 
judge people harshly for doing it, and, second, we 
will be careful when we are trying to tell the truth, 
not to allow ourselves to be cheated by the artist in 
us." 



Eighth Meeting 123 

"I think," said Virginia, "people often miss-tell 
an event, and get it all twisted, because they really 
forget what was said." 

u Of course," answered Ruth, "one is not to blame 
for forgetting." 

I said: "I think that most of us, unconsciously, 
are story-tellers in both senses. Many of us are con- 
stantly telling ourselves stories about ourselves." 

"Oh, yes," said Ruth, Marian and Florence. They 
gave me a hint of those wonderful romancings. 
Marian is always beautiful in her stories, "as in a 
real novel," she said. Florence said she was always 
as homely "as a mud fence," but I could see by her 
expression that none the less she was always trium- 
phant. Virginia in her stories was accomplished and 
a great artist. 

I forgot to be one of them for a moment. I said : 
"Until very lately I, too, used to tell myself stories 
about myself." 

"I still do it," said Ruth. 

On the subject of unimportant details and char- 
acters, we had a long talk. We spoke of Dickens' 
many characters and interwoven stories, and Vir- 
ginia maintained that many had nothing to do with 
the plot, that they were soon forgotten, and the?e 
seemed to be no special reason for them. Marian 
saw, however, that at times six or seven plots might 
be woven into a single story. Instead of fitting the 
standard to Dickens, they fitted Dickens to the stand- 
ard, and found, indeed, that "The Tale of Two 



124 The Seekers 

Cities, " which had least characters and distracting 
stories, was most interesting, and well constructed. 
Virginia spoke of "Lorna Doone," and we all agreed 
with her that the long descriptions of how things 
were done — fishing, for instance — which the author 
gave because he was interested in the country, and 
which had nothing whatever to do with characters 
and story, made it monotonous and almost spoiled 
an otherwise delightful book. 

Virginia said: "He even tells what pattern of suit 
he wore when he went fishing." 

They found the same fault with Scott. Indeed, 
none of them likes Scott. The criticisms were amus- 
ing. His blonde heroines were always weak, his dark 
ones strong, but none of them interesting. Ivanhoe 
was a flabby nobody. 

We spoke of Shakespeare, of the part his clowns 
played in the story. 

Marian said: "I see in what sense his plays are 
complete, and I feel in him wonderful understanding 
of men and great sympathy. But he doesn't uplift 
me." 

"Do you want to be uplifted into the lofty noth- 
ing?" I asked. "Is not humanity good enough for 
you?" 

We spoke, too, of "Little Women," a much be- 
loved book. We noticed how Louisa Alcott had 
changed the story to make it a story. 

I pointed out to them what it was that made melo- 
drama; namely, the intrusion of events coming from 



Eighth Meeting 1 25 

without, not springing from the reaction of char- 
acters upon one another, or the intrinsic situation — 
such as robbers, marvellous rescues, or fortunes left 
by distant relatives. We had a long talk on this 
subject, and the children told many stories. But I 
doubt whether all finally quite understood the dis- 
tinction, which is often hard to make. Is the com- 
ing and going of the ships in "The Merchant of 
Venice" melodramatic? I told them I should not 
call it so, since it was bound up with the whole story, 
almost like the persons. I said that the melodra- 
matic was more like life than the purely dramatic, 
because in life, with its thousand relations, outside 
events made changes constantly. But the story was 
more true if it contained within itself its own com- 
plete world, like a miniature universe. Each work 
of art must represent the whole. "And this is why," 
I said, "in a really well-built play or novel, a trained 
person usually can foretell the outcome. Suppose 
that we knew everything in the universe, and all 
the relations of all things to each other, we should 
be able to foretell every event." 

"Perhaps that is why novels grow tiresome," said 
Ruth, "for we get to know just how they will end." 

I spoke of the author leaving out his one-sided 
moral verdict of his own story. After representing 
life, the artist should not judge; first, because his 
judgment is usually partial and incomplete, and 
breaks the unity; second, because he thereby shows 
lack of understanding and respect for his reader, 



126 The Seekers 

who might be trusted to draw his own conclusions. 
Hawthorne's stories are often spoiled by his moral 
comment at the end. At this point I spoke of miss- 
ing Henry. I am certain he would not have agreed 
as readily as the others. 

I said moral discussions were in place in books 
on moral subjects, not in artistic works. I mentioned 
especially the worth, ability and good influence of 
the writers of so-called "muckraking" articles in the 
magazines. Virginia waxed enthusiastic. She asked 
why should Dickens not write of abuses in his novels, 
when by so doing he actually brought about social 
reforms? I said that for the social reformer they 
were right, but not for the artist. I warned her not 
to confuse the two. 

Here Marian spoke of Milton, and of his giving 
up his artistic work for years to serve his country 
in politics. 

One could' not wish he had done otherwise. A 
man's life comes before art, before any other expres- 
sion. I said many of the "muckrakers" were men 
who might have been artists, but who felt called to 
work in this more direct way for the beauty of life, 
because they could not tolerate its ugliness. But 
they were not artists ; they were something different. 

"That may be so," answered Virginia, "but just 
the same I admire those brave, muckraking men 
more than artists." 

"They are often more admirable," I said, "but 
that does not make them artists. If you admire a 



Eighth Meeting 127 

soldier more than a poet, that does not make him a 
poet." 

They spoke of the reformers working for the 
present, the artist for all time. 

"But," said Virginia, "the result of the reformer's 
work will last for all time, too." 

I spoke again of "for" and "against" in books, 
of how we felt that writer to be the greatest who 
understood and loved the villains as well as the 
heroes, and saw the strength and weakness of both 
alike. They all agreed to this, and quoted plenteous 
incidents; among others, the outcast in "Bob, Son 
of Battle," which they had all read and loved. "How 
I cried over him!" said Marian; and Ruth and Vir- 
ginia had cried, too. Here Alfred came in with his 
enthusiasm. 

"Didn't you cry over it?" asked Marian. 

"No," he answered, "but I almost did." 

"Oh, of course not," she said. "I forgot you are 
a boy." 

"He wouldn't dare admit it, even if he did," I 
said. 

Virginia said she usually loved the bad characters 
more than the good ones. 

We saw how the false simplicity of villains and 
heroes — as represented in the poor novel — of all 
good and all bad, and their appropriate punishment 
and reward, was untrue to life and human nature. 
Surely, they said, all men had in them both good and 
bad. Scott, they insisted, made this mistake. 



128 The Seekers 

I spoke of the psychological and the dramatic 
methods in novels. I said to Marian: 

"George Eliot, of whom you spoke the other day, 
is an example of the psychological method." I ex- 
plained the two methods to them, the one going into 
minute details of motive and thought, the other sug- 
gesting to us the motive and thought through the 
action itself. 

Marian does not like George Eliot. She greatly 
prefers Dickens and Thackeray. 

I said I liked George Eliot, but still I preferred 
the dramatic method for several reasons. I thought 
that the passions, moods and changes of the soul 
were too complicated ever to be put down by any 
author so as to give the impression of truth. 

Ruth agreed with me, and said: "Perhaps that 
is why I like plays better." 

To put down how a man would act under any 
particular circumstances is much more convincing 
than to tell how he would feel; for life always ex- 
presses itself in creative action. I said: "A reader 
likes to be trusted and understood by the author. 
He would rather imagine the minute details of feel- 
ing as part of the whole swing of action, to fill out 
the picture for himself, to be recognized by the 
author as a fellow genius." 

Ruth said novels tired her, because most novelists 
had only three or four characters which they used 
over and over again. I answered her that this was 
because they wrote out of their own lives, and their 



Eighth Meeting 129 

characters were usually but different sides of them- 
selves. I said many great painters used only few 
models. Virginia said she had remarked that many 
painters always painted faces that resembled them- 
selves. 

At this point, just as I was beginning to speak of 
wit and humor, Virginia's brother came into the 
room — in this case, for many reasons, an unavoida- 
ble interruption. I had so far always kept these two 
hours closed against all visitors. Although he sat 
down in the adjoining room, and was warned to 
listen and not to talk, his presence made them at 
once self-conscious and superficial. I asked them 
whether they knew any distinction between wit and 
humor. 

Virginia answered: "I always think of a witty 
person as one who has good thoughts and expresses 
them cleverly, and of a humorous person as a boor 
and booby, like that one in the next room." 

After the laugh had passed, I said: "Virginia, 
I can think of only one expression that will fit you 
just now, and that is slang. I think you are talk- 
ing " 

"Through my -hat?" 

"Yes, exactly. This to me seems the difference 
between wit and humor : The witty man is he who 
says or writes clever, funny things, just to show how 
clever and keen he is. Conceits are witty, because 
wit is essentially conceited. It may be very interest- 
ing and entertaining, but it always makes you think 



130 The Seekers 

of the author rather than of his characters. It is 
always superficial, the trick of words, and it doesn't 
keep well through the ages. A pun, for instance, is 
always witty." 

"Ough!" said Virginia, u not always!" 

''Bernard Shaw," I said, "is a good example of 
wit. Humor is the understanding of the petty foibles, 
humors and lovable weaknesses of men. Remember 
that the word humor really means mood or state 
of the blood, that it is a word very like the word 
'human.' Humor is always human. It is the large, 
genial way of looking at life of him who sees how 
little men are, and how great they are at the same 
time. It is a sense of absurd contradictions, of the 
unity of utterly unlike things, almost a parody of 
completeness. All humor, all wit, everything funny 
is an incongruous bringing together of things that 
do not seem to belong together." 

"I suppose," Marian said, "that is why we laugh 
when we see some one fall in the street?" 

"Yes," said Virginia, "for their heads and the 
sidewalk don't belong together." 

"Now, seriously," asked Marian, "what makes me 
want to laugh when I see any one fall, especially a 
grown person? And I must laugh, especially if it 
is a fat person, no matter how hard I may try to be 
polite." 

"That's because you expect a grown person and 
a fat person to be dignified, and to fall is very un- 
dignified. Imagine his high hat flying one way, his 



Eighth Meeting 131 

gold-headed cane another, and his heels in the air. 
But if a little boy falls you don't laugh, because little 
boys are meant to fall." 

"When my mother falls," Ruth said, "I can't keep 
from laughing, though I hate to see her fall." 

"But everything funny grows stale very soon," said 
Marian. 

"That is," I answered, "because when we get used 
to a combination it no longer seems incongruous." 

"Well," asked Marian, "when you laugh at peo- 
ple because they are boors and funny, why is that?" 

"That is," I said, "because you feel yourself to 
be so vastly superior." 

"Is it?" she asked. "I suppose so." 

"And next time you want to laugh at any one," 
I said mock-seriously, "just think of it first, that 
you are considering how superior you are." 

She seemed greatly impressed and quite cast down 
by this remark. 

I said: "Perhaps a good distinction to make be- 
tween wit and humor is that wit laughs at people 
and humor laughs with them." 

"Isn't satire wit?" asked Marian. 

I thought a moment. "Yes, surely," I answered. 

As I spoke again of the relation of beauty to our 
subject, Ruth said: 

"What has all this about wit and humor to do 
with our subject?" 

"Not much," I said, "except that it shows how 
the spirit of fun has a part in harmony; and that it 



132 The Seekers 

shows humor to be understanding and a human thing, 
But it is interesting for itself, isn't it?" 

"Yes," she answered, "it is very interesting." 



NINTH MEETING 

Ruth was unable to come. 

Not a single paper this week ! When all but Flor- 
ence and Marian had arrived without papers, I began 
to be disappointed; but when they came in, I said: 

"I am going to give up the club." 

You should have seen Marian's serious face. 
"Why?" she exclaimed. 

"Because you haven't brought me any paper." 

They all were too busy. But Florence had given 
Henry a good little talk on the meeting he had 
missed. 

I asked them whether they had enjoyed these 
meetings on art as much as the first meetings. They 
all said yes, quite as much. I spoke again of the re- 
lation of our idea to art. It seemed to them all that 
art was the expression of the religious ideal. Vir- 
ginia said: "It relates us with others and gives us 
sympathy." Henry said it was the action of religious 
feeling. 

"Just as," he added, "it is said one knows a man 
by his actions." 

"You know what I mean," said I; "it might be 
well expressed in a single phrase that would stay in 
your minds. Art is the symbol of completeness. It 
must be in itself a tiny world, a miniature universe. 

i33 



134 The Seekers 

Do you remember the delight you used to get when 
you were little, from a tiny doll's house, from a little 
thing that seemed real, that seemed a small, perfect 
world in itself? This joy you get from every work 
of art, the joy of a complete world." 

u As in the novel," said Marian, "which is not like 
real life, with its incompleteness and distraction, but 
has within itself all the people and all the things 
necessary to itself." 

I spoke again of the way in which I meant to dis- 
cuss questions of conduct according to the rules of 
art. I said: u Life can be made beautiful and com- 
plete in the same way, and by learning these large 
laws we may avoid the pettiness of moral discussion. 
You, being a self, are the symbol of the whole Self. 

u Now," I continued, "we will speak of poetry, 
of painting, of all the arts, and you will see that the 
laws of all are the same laws. What is the difference 
between prose and poetry?" 

They mentioned various differences, such as subject- 
matter, form, manner of treatment. 

"The chief difference between prose and poetry," 
I said, "is that poetry is written in poetry." 

That seemed an evident difference. 

"Metre, rhyme, musical measure of the words are 
qualities of poetry alone." 

"But all poetry doesn't rhyme," said Virginia. 

"No," I answered, "but all poetry has metre. Tell 
me another difference. In what way does poetry 
affect you differently from prose?" 



Ninth Meeting 135 

"I know what you mean," said Florence. u You 
mean because it has metaphor and simile." 

"That, too, but something else." 

Marian answered, with some hesitation : "Poetry 
is emotional. It stirs your feelings more than prose." 

"That is what I meant," I said; "it resembles 
music because it stirs you as much by the sound as 
by the sense. And just because it is more unreal and 
distant, it seems more real and close and complete 
in its grip. A thing must be far off to give us the 
sense of completeness and beauty. Music is to me 
the art of arts, because it expresses everything and 
defines nothing; because it is like life itself, rather 
than a description of life." Henry assented enthu- 
siastically. I went on: "You spoke of metaphor 
and simile. We find it not only in all poetry, but in 
all prose. And what is it but the relationing of 
things to one another, the likeness and the bond be- 
tween things unlike? And so keen is it, so natural, 
so close to us, that we use it every day, we are poets 
every moment in this respect, for we hardly ever 
speak without using metaphor. We say a sharp look, 
a piercing look, and so use metaphor. Do you see?" 

Marian said: "When we say in school, for in- 
stance, that our teacher looked daggers, we are using 
metaphor." 

"Yes," I answered, "and even slang is often good 
metaphor." 

Alfred asked: "If you call a person a lemon, is 
that metaphorical?" 



136 The Seekers 

"Surely," I said; "but I think it would hardly do 
in poetry, because it is too unsympathetic." 

"How about 23 skidoo?" asked Virginia. "Is 
that simile or metaphor?" 

! 'That," said I, "is less metaphor than nonsense." 

I said that in the modern play, which could not 
use the figurative language of poetry, the metaphor 
and simile were replaced by the symbol. I could not 
go into this, however, as none of them, except Flor- 
ence, had read any modern plays. So I spoke of 
the fairy story, and how it often stood for something 
which was not itself. "Yes, like Brandt," said Flor- 
ence. I did not dwell on this point, but went on to 
the subject of taking sides in poetry. I said that 
good poetry could not possibly take sides; that all 
didactic and party poetry was poor. 

"I don't see that," answered Henry. 

"No," said Florence, "he wouldn't let me con- 
vince him of it the other day." 

Henry went on: "Take Whittier's war-time 
poems ; they were written with a purpose and taking 
sides." 

I said: "I don't consider Whittier a great poet. 
But that's not the point. His war-time poems are 
some of them good, perhaps, but the best are not 
partisan. A man may sing of freedom, and still not 
be partisan, as a man may Sing of his native land, 
and need not therefore say mean things of his neigh- 
bor." 



Ninth Meeting 137 

"It seems to me," said Henry, "that every work 
of art should have a purpose." 

"Surely," I answered. "I never said it should not 
have a purpose. I said it should not take sides. 
Every work of art has the purpose of being beauti- 
ful, complete and true. So I suppose you might say 
that art is against ugliness. But ugliness is only a 
discord, a false vision which art overcomes with its 
beauty." 

"I understand," said Henry. "You mean one 
might be for something without being against any- 
thing." 

"Yes," I said, "one can be for completeness, for 
unity, for beauty, which includes all things. An 
artist pictures life; in telling a story he may see that 
some things lead to ruin and some to happiness, but 
he will not say he is for some and against others. 
He will stand far above them and see them all as 
they are, he will love them all, he will create a com- 
plete and individual world." 

Virginia said: "I suppose you don't consider 
Burns a great poet." 

"Yes, I do," I answered, "except in his didactic 
poems." 

"Well," she said, " 'Scots wha' ha' wi' Wallace 
bled' is partisan." 

"No," I answered, "it is martial, but it gives the 
foe his due. 'Break proud Edward's power.' That, 
it seems to me, is a tribute to Edward." 

At first they dissented, but finally agreed with me 



138 The Seekers 

that most martial poems — all great ones — give the 
enemy his due. Marian spoke, in this relation, of 
Homer. 

We considered high-falutin style and books that 
are all climax, without rhythm and reservations of 
strength, unlike life, which is all heartbeats and pul- 
sations. Florence told of a book which had "six 
climaxes on every page." I spoke of the conven- 
tional phrases which mar style, because we feel them 
to be imitated. 

"They are not original," said Henry. 

"No," I answered; "and originality simply means 
truth in the writer." 

"We feel," said Virginia, "that he didn't take the 
trouble to think for himself." Then she spoke of 
having been made, in school, to compare the like 
thoughts of different authors, and asked whether their 
being alike made them less original. 

"No," I answered, "for two might see life in the 
same way, each for himself." 

I went on to speak of music. "To me," I said, 
"it seems the most perfect of arts, because it is in 
itself harmony, the very word we associate with this 
idea of completeness. I don't know much of the 
laws of musical composition, but I know they are 
the laws of rhythm and harmony, the laws of all 
motion. Of course, it is figurative to speak of the 
music of the stars, and yet in a sense their motion is 
music, because it follows the laws of music. Music 
is the least definite of all arts, yet the most real and 



Ninth Meeting 139 

near. It arouses our emotions as nothing else can 
do." 

Most of them felt as I, that music was most grip- 
ping in its effects. Marian, however, did not, since 
she is not at all musical. I spoke of words and in- 
tellectual ideas in relation to music. Virginia said it 
made her feel glad to hear music, that she had to 
beat time. The others all enjoy music most when it 
has a literary annotation, either in opera, or in con- 
certs with verbal explanations. At least they want 
to know the name of every melody. In this I said 
I agreed with them, because knowing the name im- 
mediately put me into the mood the composer wished, 
and saved me those first five minutes of uncertainty 
which every strange music awakens. 

Henry said: "When I learn a new piece on the 
piano my teacher and I always talk it over. I have 
a piece called 'Spring in the Wood.' We say, 'Now 
we are in the border of the wood, now we hear the 
water rippling far off, now there are the ferns at 
the edge.' " 

We spoke of painting. 

I explained to them the point of interest, the point 
around which all other lines, colors and interests 
must centre, to which all are made subordinate. Vir- 
ginia said: "But it need not be in the centre of the 
picture." 

"No," I answered, "it had better not, since that 
would be monotonous and stiff. But wherever it is, 



140 The Seekers 

it makes itself a centre, and makes the picture a com- 
plete whole." 

Virginia told of the plan of completing the cen- 
tral figure in a sketch, and leaving the rest unfin- 
ished — as a substitute, as I showed her, for the ef- 
fectiveness of color. All eyes should be directed to 
the central figure. 

I went into technical details of lines, angles and 
motion, with help from Virginia, to show how color 
might express mood and action, as well as did the 
figures, and so would make the whole harmonious. 
Virginia spoke of "curly clouds" in a picture of a 
burial, made at the art school, where the lines of the 
clouds were too gay, and spoiled the solemn effect 
of vertical lines. 

From balance of line we went on to balance of 
light and shade and color. First I explained to them 
— what most of them knew — the complementary col- 
ors, and the cycle of color; that a picture containing 
blue and orange, or green and red, has within itself 
all the color there is. Think of the hideousness of 
a blue and yellow or red and blue picture ! "It would 
have to be toned down with the third color," said 
Virginia. 

I spoke of the literary intrusion into painting, of 
the necessity of a complete idea in the picture itself; 
the difference between illustration and art. A picture 
may have an illustrative name, but if it be complete, 
beautiful and satisfying without any name, it is not 
illustration. 



Ninth Meeting 141 

What is excellent craftsmanship might be bad art. 

Virginia and Marian spoke of some pictures in 
the Metropolitan Museum, which they had been told 
to admire, and could not; some of them pictures by 
Meissonnier, in which satins, silks and velvets were 
done to perfection. Henry spoke, too, of certain pic- 
tures of German monasteries which were painted for 
the purpose of picturing the life, with precise detail, 
and were not beautiful. I told them of the differ- 
ence between art and craft. Art is a complete ex- 
pression of life by one man. Craft is part of a big 
completeness, the work of one man which has a pur- 
pose in relation to the work of others ; as a craftsman 
may make the cornice in a palace which an artist 
designed. The craftsman does a part, the artist 
plans the whole. 

Marian said: "Sometimes some one says to me t 
'that picture is perfectly beautiful,' and I can't see 
it so. Then again I may think a picture beautiful, 
and another person will not. Why is that?" 

"Because," I said, "your taste, your standard, is 
different." 

"Is it just taste?" she asked. 

"Taste with a reason," I said, "even if you don't 
know the reason." 

"I think," said Virginia, "that when an artist ex- 
presses himself well, every one must realize it." 

"Not at all," I said. "One has to be trained to 
understand pictures, as one has to be trained to sec." 



142 The Seekers 

I told them of Turner, whose pictures look beautiful 
to some, and to others are mere blotches of color. 

"A picture is not what it represents," I said. "One 
must learn to see it. A proof of this is that babies, 
quite able to recognize objects, do not recognize pic- 
tures. And so some people are babies all their lives 
in relation to art. 

"Now," I asked, "do any of you think photographs 
artistic?" 

I believe Henry was going to say he did, but was 
overwhelmed by the others. Alfred said: "In a 
photograph all the unimportant things are there with 
the important." 

Marian said that there, as in life, there was in- 
trusion of inharmonious details. 

The out-of-focus and blurred photograph some- 
times is artistic, because of the lost details and the 
effect of distance; but, just therefore, it is untrue to 
fact. 

Virginia said photographic art was bad art. She 
said: "My teacher gave a good example. If a fire- 
engine were tearing along the street, you would be 
so interested in that you would see nothing else. 
There might be crowds of people, but you would 
not notice them. But if a camera were to be snapped, 
they would all be in it and obscure the engine. You 
see only what is important, but the camera sees 
everything." 

"That is a good illustration," I said. "And so 
you see we are story-tellers in vision as well as in 



Ninth Meeting 143 

narrative. We see things complete and dramatic, 
whether they are so or not, just as we must tell a com- 
plete story. Do you realize how all the arts are re- 
lated, how they all have the same laws? And these, 
I believe, are the laws of life. 

"Did you ever think of it, that the artist sees only 
with his eyes, whereas you see with your eyes, fingers, 
ears, with all your senses? You see a table square, 
high, hard, smooth, but an artist sees it only in per- 
spective, from a certain point of view. To get com- 
pleteness you must limit yourself, because you cannot 
see the universe. The drop of water is most com- 
plete and perfect when it is a limited, spherical drop, 
not when it is scattered abroad in mist. 

"The artist/' I said, "is one who sees things beau- 
tiful, even when to others they do not seem so; and 
to see things beautiful is to see truth." * 

None of the children disputed this much-disputed 
fact — for to youth it is obvious — so I myself had to 
answer the objections. I said: "One might say that 
in life many things are ugly, and these things are true, 
therefore to see these things as beautiful is not to see 
them truly. But we believe that the whole universe, 
altogether, could we know it, would be harmonious 
and beautiful; therefore to see things as beautiful 
is to see them in relation to that truth, and as symbols 
of that truth." 

Marian said: "We must believe that the whole 
universe is harmonious; anything else is unthinkable. 
We feel it in ourselves." 



144 The Seekers 

"You mean, because we have the laws of harmony 
in our own nature?" 

"Yes. The whole must be harmonious." 

We spoke of instances in which ugly things could 
be seen as beautiful. The empty lot across the street, 
with its boards, rubbish and shanties, is ugly; but at 
times, under certain conditions, and by shutting out 
a part with my hand, I see it as a beautiful wild 
landscape. 

Marian said: "Near us are some poor, ugly 
houses, that I hate to see; but sometimes I see little 
children at the windows, who are so sweet and grace- 
ful they make the houses look beautiful." 

"There are a great many pictures," said Virginia, 
"but I think there is not much art. Do you?" 

"No," I said. "To be a painter does not make 
one an artist. Do you remember hearing people make 
the criticism that a picture was pretty, but not beau- 
tiful? Prettiness in art is a sad fault, one that per- 
haps you, too, have found. But do you know just 
what it is?" 

Virginia said she had often seen pictures that were 
just pretty, without character. 

I said: "When a painter makes pictures to please 
the taste of people whose taste he does not respect, 
when a would-be artist works to catch applause or 
money from the crowd by satisfying their bad taste, 
and does not even believe in the love of truth and 
beauty which sleeps in them all, then the thing he 
paints is usually pretty. He will paint a little child 



Ninth Meeting 145 

with a kitten in her lap, because that is a pretty sub- 
ject, but it will be the most affected child and the 
posiest kitten !" 

"It is superficial," they said. 

"Yes, for he does not know the true character of 
those for whom he works, nor care to know his sub- 
ject. The smirking advertisements one sees are a 
good example of prettiness. But many artists, work- 
ing for money alone, fall into this cheap, easy habit 
of pleasing the worst taste." 

"Wouldn't you call The Vicar of Wakefield' a 
pretty book?" asked Henry. 

"No, indeed," I answered; "it is far too genuine 
and lifelike to be merely pretty." 

Henry insisted it was written for money, and was 
merely sweet and pleasing. The others disagreed 
with him so strenuously, I had hardly a chance to say, 
as before, that one- might write for money the thing 
needful to be said. Virginia asked whether I did not 
think Jessie Wilcox Smith's drawings merely pretty? 
I said I thought them so now and then, but that some- 
times her deep love and understanding of childhood 
made them shine with loveliness. 

Marian said: "Some people are merely pretty and 
uninteresting." 

"Often," I answered, "they want just that. They 
look for superficial admiration, and show only their 
superficial prettiness." 

"But, of course, that isn't art," said Marian. 

"Sometimes it is," answered Florence. 



146 The Seekers 

I spoke of sculpture as the Greek drama of visual 
art, a metaphor that appealed to those of them — 
Florence, Marian, Henry — who knew enough of 
Greek drama, with its masks and buskins, and its far- 
offness, to understand. The distance, the unlifelike- 
ness of the material, is its charm. The colored 
German marbles lose artistic beauty in gaining life- 
like color. 

"In that case," said Alfred, "I should think the 
process of coloring and the newness of the material 
would interest one so much as to draw one's attention 
away from the statue." 

"I don't think it is only that," I answered; "for 
surely wax works, which are quite common, with all 
their lifelike color and softness, do not give us the 
thrill of reality and beauty that we get from a marble 



statue." 



"I think," said Henry, "it is just the coldness and 
hardness of marble, changed by the artist into shapes 
of life and warmth, that make it beautiful." 

"Yes," I said, "exactly. The sculptor expresses 
his idea in every curve of the human form, and makes 
human shapes say universal things. They express by 
attitude and line power, beauty, tenderness. In the 
'Mercury,' the lines of that headlong figure, to half- 
shut eyes, represent the curve and angle of flight 



itself.' 



Virginia now spoke of Michael Angelo, and his 
misdrawing of figures, which are none the less beau- 
tiful and powerful. I said he was so great a genius 



Ninth Meeting 147 

that his genius, as often happens, overshadowed his 
shortcomings as a craftsman. 

Here we came, I know not how, on the subject of 
drama. I said that to me it could never seem a per- 
fect form of art— that is, the acted drama — because 
the actors usually obtruded their personality, and so 
broke in on the unity of expression — the creation of 
one mind — necessary to art. But the children, better 
at the art of looking on than I, and not so quick to 
note the significance of personality, said they forgot 
entirely the actors themselves, and felt as though 
the thing were a piece of life. * Virginia and Florence 
said they felt as if they were the author, as if by 
being spectators they took part, and Virginia said 
she always did hate the villains ! 

Of architecture we observed that it appealed di- 
rectly to the emotions, like music ; that it made us feel, 
we knew not why, glad or sad, or calm or overawed. 
Virginia spoke of the Palais de Justice in Brussels, 
which made her feel very tiny; and this naturally 
brought us to speak of the feeling of reverence and 
awe. 

'Whenever we feel small," I said, "and see an- 
other thing as vast, that vastness is in our minds, it is 
our own immense other self which overawes us." 

They said they did not know what the feeling 
was. Virginia said: "When I have it, if I try to 
think of what it is, it is already gone. But the next 
time I see the same thing, perhaps some beautiful 
picture, that feeling is there again." 



148 The Seekers 

Virginia and Florence said they never had any 
reverence for particular people, because they were 
older, for instance. But, I said, at least they must 
have reverence for people, as such, for the self in all 
people. They granted that. 

We spoke of the completeness of that architecture 
which showed outwardly its inner use, and the spirit 
of its land and people; of distinctly American prob- 
lems, the skyscraper, the selfishness of New York 
builders, who did not consider the beauty of the 
whole city, and so wrought ugliness. The children 
gave examples, and did not agree with me altogether, 
Henry saying that a railroad station built like a 
Roman temple made you feel like travelling more than 
did the gloomy Grand Central. When he asked me 
how about the banks built like Greek temples, I said 
that might be more appropriate, since some of us 
did worship money! 

He spoke of the library at Washington as fitting 
exactly to its use; its big, comfortable rooms made 
one feel like studying and reading all the day. 

"I wonder if anything could make me feel like 
that!" said Virginia. 

When the others had left, I took a walk with 
Alfred. He said : "I didn't exactly understand what 
you meant by my being big when I feel little." 

"I meant," I said, u that when you feel awe before 
the immensity of the universe, under the stars, or 
by the sea, the thought of immensity is in yourself, 
and it is really yourself who become immense. You 



Ninth Meeting 149 

realize your whole self. And before that realization 
your daily life and thoughts and your own small 
self seem very tiny. It is one part of yourself, the 
small part, standing in awe and wonder before that 
other immense self." 

He understood that. 

I went on: "I only mentioned it to-day, and did 
not expect you to understand. I often do this, either 
to give a suggestion for the next week, or else to see 
what really interests you." 

"I think it is a good idea," he said. 



TENTH MEETING 

Virginia could not come. We did have six pres- 
ent, however, as we had a visitor, Leo, a boy of 
sixteen. 

Ruth brought with her a box of candy, given her 
by a sympathetic aunt, who has an opinion, I surmise, 
of our club. They all assured me that candy would 
not disturb their thoughts. Marian said: "There's 
nothing I can't do, and eat candy at the same time. 5 ' 
I do, myself, think it was an improvement. We had 
a lively and interesting meeting, and much sweetness. 

Marian wrote a paper on our meeting of two weeks 
past, following the notes I had made for Florence 
to use in her talk with Henry. It lacked Marian's 
usual originality, as it was built directly on my 
thought. She even used one phrase of mine, word 
for word, namely: u Life proves all things by creative 
action." 

u Why did you use it?" I asked. 

"Because," she said, "I didn't understand what 
it meant, and I wanted to ask you." 

"I am glad," I said, "for it is a thing of which 
I meant to speak to-day. All action is creation and 
self-expression; everything is changing and in action 
all the time, because it is striving to come into better 

150 



Tenth Meeting 151 

relation with all other things. All art and all life is 
self-expression and action at every moment. We 
must create if we would be complete. That is why 
, I love the active and creative life." 

"Yes," said Marian, "I understand. u You had 
told us so before. But I didn't know it was what 
you meant by that sentence." 

Now I read Marian's paper for this week: 
"On December 6th the Seekers held a meeting, in 
which we continued our discussion on Art. We first 
considered the subject of Art in Poetry. Poetry dif- 
fers from prose in two essential respects, namely, it 
is farther off, and it expresses the emotions, and does 
so in a musical form. Our standard for Art applies 
in poetry, as well as in other things. In connection 
with poetry we took up the subject of controversy 
in art, and especially in poetry. We decided that a 
controversial poem, or novel, is not good art because 
it is one-sided and incomplete. If a man writes on 
one side of a question he cannot be really in that 
sympathetic frame of mind that is necessary for the 
production of a good piece of art. We next took up 
art in music, and decided that music is the most com- 
plete or artistic of all arts, because it is farthest off, 
and expresses most completely our ideal. We also 
considered sculpture, and noted the fact that the 
sculpture is the expression in human form of the 
sculptor's ideas. We also considered painting, and 
after we had again applied our standard, Miss Samp- 
ter told us that every picture has a central object or 



152 The Seekers 

figure, the figure of most importance; that all the 
lines of the picture are direct toward it; and that in 
every good painting there must be contrast, and all 
the primary colors must be in it. It is complete in 
every way. All the colors, light and shade, and the 
idea of the painter well worked out, complete it. 
We considered, besides, the subject of architecture, 
and said that a building should in some measure ex- 
press the purpose for which it was to be used." 

Ruth said she understood all this, and could gather 
something of our last meeting. She did not quite 
see what was meant by a thing in art being "far off." 
Henry told her it meant that though removed from 
reason, and not clearly defined or lifelike, it appealed 
to our sympathies and emotions, and we understood it 
all the better. Then I read Henry's paper: 

"In poetry and music, as in all the other arts, it 
is completeness, complete harmony, which makes a 
thing beautiful. Of all the arts the most beautiful 
is music. Harmony is everything in music, and is 
the principal in musical composition. A piece of 
music always closes with the first note of the scale, 
thus completing the chord. If it were otherwise we 
would say there was something lacking. The phrase 
itself shows us that what we want is completeness, 
though few people stop to think of its full meaning 
when they use it. 

"We have said that the farther away we are from 
something, the more beautiful it seems. This is 
true of music, which, besides being the most beauti- 



Tenth Meeting 153 

ful of arts, is the farthest away, for we cannot say 
anything definite with it, but must leave so much to 
the sympathy of the listeners. I like to think of this 
as a symbol of the beautiful completeness we hope 
to realize some far-distant day, and that then there 
will be something still more beautiful, that we shall 
know in times still farther off." 

I thought this an excellent paper, and I told Henry 
so. I said I was glad he had written more of musical 
composition than I had been able to tell him. 

We spoke of some of our past meetings. Florence 
said: "I couldn't make Henry see the difference 
between wit and humor." 

"I see it now," he answered. "We discussed it in 
school." 

"So did we," said Marian. "Isn't it queer ?" 

They had been taking up drama, too, and so their 
club and school work harmonized. 

I said: "You have heard people speak of the art 
of life. To me it seems that to make an art of life, 
to live it as if it were our creation, our work of art, 
is the best way, the most complete and beautiful way. 
You remember, I spoke to you of the three ways of 
looking at life, of writing books, for instance : The 
scientific way, the philosophic way, the artistic way. 
One can live life in these three ways, too ; but to me 
the artistic way seems best." 

"Don't you think," asked Marian, "that if we lived 
as an art, we should be too apt to excuse ourselves?" 
"How do you mean, Marian?" 



ii 



154 The Seekers 

"Because," she went on, "we should admit the 
shadows in life as well as the light." 

"The shadows," I answered, "are not the wrong, 
the bad. How can you think so? Are shadows in 
a picture the mistakes in it? Shadows make the 
rhythm and the contrast; and in life would be re- 
pose and sleep. That necessary pulsation of activity 
and rest alone can make life whole and perfect." 
I see," said Marian, "that is true." 

'As for blaming ourselves for things past, I think 
it is silly to do so." 

"What," they asked, "is the scientific way of 
life?" 

"It is," I answered, "living according to small 
definite truths, knowing certain separate things to 
be good or bad for us, and living according to that 
knowledge, without any general aim of life. It is 
to bathe regularly, to tell the truth carefully, to be 
honest, to look out for your neighbor, always be- 
cause each one of these things is expedient in itself. 
The philosophic way is to see the final, complete 
good, and to want that once, to lose yourself and 
the beauty of your own life in the desperate effort 
to make the whole world perfect now. Suppose, for 
instance, that on Christmas a starving family came 
to the door of a middle-class man for food. If 
he were a scientist in his life he would send the poor 
family at once to the public food kitchen, with a 
ticket of recommendation, because he did not believe 
in indiscriminate charity and pauperism. If he were 



Tenth Meeting 155 

a philosopher he would be horrified at the idea of 
any man lacking a dinner, and without further 
thought would give his whole dinner to the poor, 
and go without, and let his children go without. That 
is just what Bronson Alcott did — the typical philoso- 
pher in life — who neglected his own family for the 
good of the universe." 

"I have often known of people," said Henry, "who 
went out to do charity and neglected their families." 

"Yes," I said, "but that is sometimes for still 
worse reasons. Now what would the artist in life 
do? He would be full of the delight of Christmas 
feeling; and he would either share his dinner with 
the other man — according to circumstances — or ask 
him in to his table, if the poor children were not 
too dirty. He would look out for himself and for 
the other man, and do it gracefully, beautifully. He 
knows that first of all he must make his own life sane 
and beautiful, but he wants to include as many other 
lives as he can in that life of his, and to make all his 
relations with men beautiful." 

"What you call the philosophic way," said Ruth, 
"is what I had always called the artistic way." 

"That is," I said, "because you have all of you 
had a ridiculous, false idea of what the artist is. 
The scientific life is the life according to particular 
truths, without an aim. The philosophic life is the 
life dreaming of supreme good, and neglecting the 
particular, individual beauty of life." 



156 The Seekers 

"But doesn't the philosophic way help toward that 
good?" asked Henry. 

"Yes," I said, "though often it tries only im- 
practicable schemes. The artistic way combines and 
transcends the two. For the artist must have knowl- 
edge of facts, must know science, and must love 
supreme good, as well. Facts according to the su- 
preme good, life made beautiful to be like complete- 
ness, that is the artistic life. It includes both the 
scientific and the philosophic." 

"It is as it were the middle way?" asked Ruth. 

"Yes," I said, "because beauty includes all ex- 
tremes." 

Henry remarked: "It may be the best way, but 
I wouldn't guarantee to live according to it." 

I smiled. "You mean," I said, "that you didn't 
like the idea of asking the poor man in to dinner?" 
He assented. "But you misunderstood me. That 
was only a picture, a story, not a law. If we make 
large laws for life — such laws as those of art — we 
shall avoid petty moralizing, which I, for one, detest. 
We shall see that every circumstance alters the case. 

"It's just this petty moralizing that is unnecessary, 
when one has big laws and standards which he can 
use in life, each for himself." 

We did come very near having a discussion on 
truth-telling, but I stopped it at once. I was glad 
to discover, however, that Ruth is not a stickler for 
literal truth under all circumstances. 

"I don't like little laws laid down," I said, "be- 



Tenth Meeting 157 

cause they are never true and necessary in all cases. 
They make me feel rebellious/' 

"Yes," said Marian, "they make one feel con- 
trary, and want to do just the opposite." 

I spoke of the undeniable fact that all great action, 
all history sprang from imaginative thought, that 
a deed had to be imagined before it could be 
done, that all history was inspired by the bards and 
prophets. I spoke of even such scientific theories 
as evolution springing from imaginative thought. 
They all seemed to have realized this before, and 
none dissented. I read to them O'Shawnessy's Ode, 
"We are the Music-makers." 

Florence said: "We spoke of the thinker's in- 
fluence lately, at home. But I always thought of 
those great men, not as poets, but as philosophers." 

"Yes," I answered, "they often were. But they 
were poets, too. The greatest artist — as I showed 
you — is a scientist and philosopher as well. Goethe 
to me seems the best example of such a complete 
man. His life was so many-sided, and yet so artistic, 
so definite in its aim; it might stand as an example 
of the artistic life." 

Now, what the children seemed to know of Goethe 
was that he had a great many love affairs, and did 
not behave well in any of them. Marian and Henry 
had a clearer idea, and knew this was not the whole 
or the chief part of his life, nor quite so faulty as 
represented. Henry said: "He could appreciate the 



158 The Seekers 

good points in a woman without always falling in love 
with her." 

When Ruth said she didn't know anything of 
Goethe but his lover's weakness, Marian turned on 
her with : "Now, isn't it a shame to know that of 
him, and nothing else!" 

I told them again that as every work of art was 
a symbol of completeness, so every self, being a self, 
symbolized the complete self of understanding and 
unity; every man was a symbol of completeness, of 
the Divine Self. 

Before we went on to enumerate for ourselves the 
laws of art, now that we all agreed they would be 
one with the laws of life, I wished to read aloud some 
slips from a Ruskin calendar, which Ruth had 
brought me two weeks before. The most fruitful of 
conversation were the following: 

"All are to be men of genius in their degree — ■ 
rivulets or rivers, it does not matter, so that the 
souls be clear and pure." 

This, they said, was exactly our idea of genius in 
all. 

"Good work is never done for hatred, any more 
than for hire — but for love only." 

Surely, then, not for controversy, we said. 

"Neither a great fact, nor a great man, nor a great 
poem, nor a great picture, nor any other great thing, 
can be fathomed to the bottom in a moment of time." 

"Every great man is always being helped by every- 



Tenth Meeting 159 

body, for his gift is to get good out of all things and 
all persons." 

This, I reminded them, was what we had said 
when we spoke of the good and bad, that we must 
use all things for good. 

"The ennobling difference between one man and 
another— between one animal and another — is pre- 
cisely in this, that one feels more than another." 

"Doesn't it seem," said Florence, "as if Ruskin 
had written those papers especially for us?" 

"That last one," I said, "expresses exactly our 
idea; here 'feeling' means the same as 'sympathy/ 
or 'feeling with,' So you find, all through the old 
books, the striving for this same truth, always vaguely 
expressed, never fully understood, as an ideal, as a 
religion of life." 

Ruth asked: "Don't you think all great religions 
have always believed in that final unity?" 

"Not quite in this way," I answered. "They have 
vaguely striven for it and implied it, but never 
realized it as the one meaning in life, the moving 
force of the universe." 

I gave each of them a pencil and a piece of paper, 
and said we would find out and write down what were 
the chief laws of all arts, and then follow that writ- 
ten paper throughout our meetings. I said: "It 
looks like a party, with the candy and the paper and 
pencils." 

"Yes," said Florence; "and now we are going to 
play a guessing game!" 



1 6o The Seekers 

The first law upon which we decided, after some 
conversation, was : 

i. Art is the symbol of completeness, in a definite 
shape. 

On this last part, "in a definite shape," I especially 
insisted, showing them how the definite, the particu- 
lar, the finite — the drop as opposed to the mist — 
symbolized completeness. I said for them Goethe's 
poem, "Ueber alien Gipfeln," to show them how 
so short, clearcut and simple a thing gave us the 
sense of immensity. 

Henry said he had thought at one time that if 
one only knew the truth, it was not necessary to be 
a good orator; one had simply to state the truth. 
But now he believed the form an essential part of 
the thought. 

Marian said something of the artistic life as mean- 
ing one must have a single aim. I answered her it 
might be so, but the single aim would be immense 
and inclusive. Now we went on to the second law, 
which we formulated thus : 

2. Art is self-expression and self- fulfilment. 

Self-expression means action, creation. "Think- 
ing, writing, the work of the artist is action," I said. 
They understood. I quoted: "There is only one 
gift worth giving, and that is one's self." "To give 
one's self," I said, "that is action, that is life, crea- 
tion and fulfilment." 

"How so fulfilment?" asked Marian. 



Tenth Meeting 161 

"Because it is always fulfilment to do the thing 
we love to do. Now what comes next?" 

Henry said: "To leave out the distracting; to 
leave out detail." 

"Not necessarily detail," I answered; "certain defi- 
nite details are essential." 

They said to leave out the irrelevant, the inhar- 
monious, the unnecessary. I said: 

3. To leave out the unimportant. 

"Can you see," I asked, "how that will apply to 
life?" 

4. Must have variety and many-sidedness. 

That is, contrast, rhythm, the all-roundness which 
makes the whole. 

We had just begun to speak of the next law when 
I was called from the room. 

As I returned, Henry said to me: "Well, then, 
let us write down: 'must not be for or against.' " 

So they had formulated it while I was away. I 
answered: "Rather let us use the w r ord 'partisan,' 
which means part, not whole." 

5. Must not be partisan, and must be sympa- 
thetic. 

Now, I said, art, 

6. Must give the impression of truth. 

I did not linger on this point, and was glad the 
children accepted it without question, for I wanted 
more time to explain it. 

I went on to the last law, which was the only one 
I had some trouble in making clear. I asked why was 



162 The Seekers 

the photograph inartistic? They said because of in- 
harmonious details. I asked, why is the statue more 
beautiful than wax works? Henry spoke again of 
the "distance" of material, which just thereby ap- 
pealed to the sympathies. I wanted to speak of the 
artist's aloofness, how he was creator of his work, 
within it, and yet around it and above it. They did 
not understand. They said, if he were above it, he 
would be unsympathetic. They did not understand 
the creator's attitude toward himself, the created; 
the dramatic attitude in life, in which we are both 
actor and spectator. Marian said she thought she 
understood it. "Haven't you ever laughed at your- 
self?" she asked the others. 

"I have sworn at myself," said Leo. 

I meant to pass by the subject, and leave out the 
last law, rather than arouse a self-consciousness, which 
was the opposite of what I hoped to awaken. But 
unintentionally the conversation led to a better un- 
derstanding. 

I spoke again of reverence, as I had done to Al- 
fred, of the small self awed in supreme moments* 
before the immensity of its whole self. 

"Do you mean," asked Leo, "that it makes us feel 
how small we are?" 

I tried to make it clear. I spoke of the feeling 
of nothingness that overcomes us, when we stand 
under the stars at night, and realize them as worlds 
and suns, and our planet as a dot of light in im- 
mensity. 



Tenth Meeting 1 63 

They had all felt so, except Henry. 

He said: "It does not make me feel small. I 
feel that I am a part of it all, and one with the 
universe." 

"Yours is the true feeling," I answered, "for you 
are, indeed, a part f of it, and the realization of it is 
within yourself. A kitten in your place would not 
feel it." 

"I know," said Marian, "that many people do not 
feel it. For I have sometimes walked with some 
one out in the night, or by the sea, and could not 
speak. And suddenly they said some trivial thing, 
which showed they did not feel as I did." 

Alfred said he felt overawed by the sea, because 
it was so strong and big. 

"You mean," I asked, "that it makes you feel 
helpless before its might?" 

"Yes." 

"It has been said," Henry went on, "that one can- 
not be an astronomer and not worship. I believe it is 
true." 

"And now," I said, "we are coming to the seventh 
law after all. For by aloofness I mean that the ar- 
tist, during his act of creation, feels his own immense 
self, feels the whole universe, and sees himself and 
all other things as a part in relation to it." 

"I have felt that way sometimes," said Florence, 
"just for a moment." 

"It is a momentary realization," I answered. 



164 The Seekers 

"Don't you think," asked Ruth, "that it is a su- 
perior feeling, though; a cold, perfect feeling?" 

"No," I answered; "though it lifts us above petty 
concern for ourselves, it does not lift us out of sym- 
pathy and action." 

Henry said: "When I go to Riverside and see 
all the lights, and think of the millions of people, I 
feci them all." 

It reminded me of the day Marian had said she felt 
so when she thought of all the windows and rooms 
in all the apartment houses. 

"Suppose," I asked, "that you had failed in a 
very important examination, Henry, would you feel 
bad?" 

"Yes," he said, "if it were a very, very important 
one." 

"Then, if you went to Riverside Drive and forgot 
yourself in that immense feeling, when you returned 
home you would not only be over your sore, bitter 
disappointment, but you would be full of energy to 
begin work again." 

"Yes," he answered, "I would." 

"So, you see, it is a creative, sympathetic, living 
aloofness, not cold and far off." 

We put down for the seventh law: 

7. Aloofness. 

Knowing what we meant thereby. 

Ruth said she had noticed that the artistic life 
was a selfish ideal. 

"Yes," I said, "selfish in the best sense." 



Tenth Meeting 165 

"It is self-development, you mean," said Alfred. 

"Yes," I answered, "and that selfishness includes 
the whole world." 

"Why use the word 'selfishness,' then," asked 
Marian, "that has been used in another sense?" 

We spent the rest of the time telling Leo our idea 
of God and progress. Henry, Ruth, Florence and 
Marian did it; Florence told him of complete human 
sympathy, Marian of progress toward it as the good, 
Henry explained the poem, "Abou ben Adhem," and 
Ruth — when Leo objected that knowing men was not 
knowing God — quoted a passage from the Bible to 
show it was. 

"I always think of God as a supreme power," said 
Leo. 

I told him something of our idea. What I cared 
for was to hear the others talk. All, except Henry, 
seemed satisfied with a merely human conception of 
self — that is, Florence set the key, and all but Henry 
kept the tune. He spoke of the "something out- 
side." 

I remarked that, as I had foreseen, we no longer 
used the word God. 

"I use it to myself," said Ruth. 

Henry said: "I use it when I speak to other peo- 
ple; but not here, because we know what we mean, 
without saying it." 

Marian said: "We have made a vocabulary of 
our own. Ought we to?" 



1 66 The Seekers 

"Yes," I said. "Perhaps we can impose it on 
others?" 

"I don't think that would be fair or right/' she 
answered, 

u Why not? That is just what every great thinker 
has done. He has imposed a new vocabulary upon 
the world. Unless our words are good and great 
and true, they will not last." 



^ 



ELEVENTH MEETING 

I READ Virginia's paper of two weeks ago: 

DISCUSSION ON ART 

" Any thing to be really beautiful must be complete. 
The reason for this is that it gives us that idea of 
completeness which the universe possesses. A picture 
in which every detail is painted may be pretty, but it 
is not beautiful. When you look at a person you look 
at his face and the expression of it. In anything on 
which you set your eyes, you see only the part that 
interests you. Therefore a good picture or a book 
should only have that part brought forth, and the rest 
and unimportant parts should be kept in the back- 
ground. In fact, they -should only be there to make 
the important thing more interesting; to make it 
stand out." 

Then I read Henry's paper : 

"At our last meeting we reviewed all that we had 
said about art. We spoke of the three kinds of life, 
the artistic, philosophic and scientific, and agreed 
that the artistic life is the one we care for. We 
made a list of those things which are necessary in 
art, so that we can refer to them, and apply them in 
judging life. 

167 



i68 The Seekers 

'iGood art 

1. is a symbol of completeness in a definite form. 

2. is self-expression and self-fulfilment. 

3. must leave out unimportant detail. 

4. must have variety and many-sidedness. 

5. must not be partisan, and must be sympathetic. 

6. gives the impression of truth. 

7. — " 

The last law, the idea of aloofness, of being above 
as well as within life, of being actor and spectator 
at once, they do -not understand, and I made no fur- 
ther effort to explain. Henry said he left it cut- — 
for that reason — when writing his paper. 

I said Henry had mentioned we did prefer and 
choose the artistic life. But why? I suspected, from 
something they said, that they did not grasp the rea- 
sons. 

Virginia said she didn't care what the reasons 
were, she knew she liked it best. The reasons, at 
any rate, had not impressed them. So I repeated 
what I had said, of the artistic life including the 
other two, of how the artist must know science and 
love goodness before he can create beauty. 

"Then," said Florence, "the great artists were 
philosophers?" 

"Always," I answered. "Take the ancient reli- 
gious writings, such as the Vedas and the Bible. They 
were always poems, the work of artists who were, 
also philosophers and scientists." 

"Scientists?" asked Marian incredulously. 



Eleventh Meeting 169 

"Surely," I answered, "men such as Moses, who 
gave laws on sanitation and daily life, were the 
scientists of their time." 

"An -artist must understand science," said Vir- 
ginia, "natural science, if he wants to paint. And he 
must know physiology, too. I am beginning to realize 
that at school." 

Some one mentioned 'Franklin. "Was he more 
scientist, or philosopher, or artist in his life?" 

"I think he was a philosopher," said Virginia. 

"No," Marian answered, "he just gathered a lot 
of bromidic proverbs, that were as old as the world, 
and said them over in an impressive way." 

"But they were philosophical," Virginia protested. 

"No," said Marian, "I don't think so. They were 
scientific, for they dealt with little disjointed parts 
of life." 

I told them I wanted to paraphrase a certain verse 
in the Bible, the verse : 

"Faith, Hope and Charity, but the greatest of these 
is Charity." 

"How?" asked Ruth, much interested. 

"I would say," I went on, "Truth, Goodness and 
Beauty, but the greatest of these is Beauty' — because 
it includes the other two." 

Now I changed the first law into terms of life : 

"Life is a symbol of the complete Self, in a defi- 
nite shape." 

Life must express that Self in definite and indi- 
vidual lines, that is, in beauty. 



170 The Seekers 

I spoke again of small and great genius, of art 
expressing a lesser or a greater completeness, of 
"Jenny Kissed Me" and "Faust," Florence's exam- 
ples. "With people you must have noticed the same 
thing. Some people whose lives seem very limited, 
who understand and know little, still have such har- 
monious natures that in their spheres they seem com- 
plete. But with still other people you feel that their 
lives are much larger, that they grasp more of life 
and possess more, because they understand more. 
The more we understand, sympathize and love, the 
larger is our life." 

Marian looked puzzled. 

"What is it, Marian?" I asked. 

"Why," she said, "should some people be larger 
and more complete than others?" 

"How do you mean, Marian?" 

"Why is it so? Why aren't we all alike?" 

"If we were," said Henry, "it would be very mo- 
notonous." 

"Oh, I know that," said Marian. "But why is 
it so, anyway?" 

"Marian always asks the unanswerable," I said. 
"And still — if we believe in progress, in the evolution 
of self, don't you see? — some selves are more devel- 
oped than others." 

"If we believed in transmigration," said Marian, 
"it would be easy to understand." 

"You know," I answered, "what I think of trans- 
migration. But whether there be transmigration in 



Eleventh Meeting 171 

the usual sense, or not, I think we all believe that 
in some way we have lived until now, that we are 
not created in one moment, that we evolve through- 
out all time." 

And now I made a mistake, tried an experiment 
that was not successful. I have had misgivings, now 
and then — unfounded ones, I believe to-day — as to 
the value, to young people, of a philosophy of life 
which does not at once directly and concretely affect 
their manner of living, but does so indirectly and 
slowly through affecting their tastes, opinions and 
desires. 

One of the girls happened to speak of the relation 
of parents and children. I had realized for a long 
time that this was among the pressing problems of 
youth — especially of some of these particular young 
people — and instead of keeping to my prepared work, 
I took advantage of the remark, and launched off 
into that bottomless subject — -without a pilot. 

I said: "I think it is one of the gravest — perhaps 
the only grave problem — of your lives, and we might 
as well try to solve it now, if we can. What shall 
we do with our parents?" 

There came a. flood of ideas and confessions. I 
made so personal a call upon each one, and intimated 
that I already knew so much of their lives, that 
they were frank and open with me, and said to me, 
without thinking, much more, I am sure, than they 
would willingly and deliberately have said to each 
other. They spoke as if to me alone, even mentioned 



172 The Seekers 

personal circumstances of which I alone had knowl- 
edge. Naturally, I will not write down that conver- 
sation. 

I told them the difficulty arose from a change for 
the better in the relation between children and 
parents, and that neither one nor the other had fully 
realized the change. The old relation of fearing 
reverence had been changed to that of love and com- 
panionship. I said, mock-seriously: 

"Of course, we do know more than our parents can 
possibly know, and we are quite able to judge every- 
thing for ourselves, and so we resent being told to 
do things " 

Marian interrupted me with a solemn: "Oh, no !" 
and it was a moment before they all realized that I 
was joking. 

"But, truly," I went on, "we are so used to having, 
and fond of having, our own way, that we do chafe 
and even feel contradictory the moment we are or- 
dered to do anything. Don't you, Alfred?" 

"No," said Alfred; "only I don't like to stop if 
I have anything else to do." 

"I hate," Marian said, "to be told to do anything 
which I don't want to do, and for which I see no 
reason : going to see people whom I dislike, and who 
bore me, for instance." 

"There," I answered, "the reason is clear. I re- 
member feeling so myself, and I am not glad that I 
was given my own way. Young people must know 
and see and tolerate all sorts of folks, even pokey old 



Eleventh Meeting 173 

relations, so that they may learn to know people and 
be able to choose for themselves as they grow older,. 
To know many is to find some." 

With that they agreed. . 

"But," I went on, "the trouble is not so much: 
with what you want or don't want to do, as with 
irritability and impudence." 

"You mean 'sassing' your parents?" asked Vir- 
ginia. 

"Yes." 

"I 'sass' mine," she said, "when I think they will 
like it. I wheedle my parents, and so I get what I 
want without being disagreeable." 

"Oh, you don't count, Virginia," I went on, "but 
what I mean is answering back, being unkind and 
contradictory when we would rather not, doing all 
sorts of regrettable things because we are in a tem- 
per, and then afterward feeling mean, sore and des- 
picable, and knowing that we were wrong. That sort 
of ugliness and irritation, if it's not stopped, makes 
mean, ugly, irritable characters." 

"I know just what you mean," said Marian, "and 
I know exactly what I think of other people who are 
like that." 

"It is ugly," I said. "I dislike it, because it is 
not beautiful. How can any one live a beautiful, 
harmonious life who begins by being out of harmony 
in his relation with the person whom he loves ? For 
that is the truth. Children often love dearly the 
parent with whom they are always disagreeing. How 



174 The Seekers 

shall we get understanding and unity and sympathy 
in life if we cannot get it with those nearest us, those 
we love?" 

"Of course," said Henry, "our idea of life, of com- 
plete sympathy, is against all that kind of thing." 

"It is much easier," said Marian, "to know what 
is right than to do it." 

We all agreed. 

"But why," I said, "should we suffer regrets, and 
do ugly things, when there must be some way to 
stop it?" 

"What way?" asked Marian. 

"Well, first, what is our feeling toward older peo- 
ple?" 

"Pity," said Virginia. 

"How?" we all asked rather indignantly. 

"Well," she went on, "you get up for an old 
woman in the car, because you are sorry for her, 
so that she shouldn't flop all over your shins." 

"Pity for the other people!" said Florence. 

(We are always undecided in the club whether to 
put Virginia out of the room or whether to hug her. 
So, in our indecision, we leave her alone.) 

I said: "We used to be told to reverence the old. 
I say to you, reverence every one. If you think of 
self as a symbol of the complete Self, as the holy 
thing, then you will reverence the self in every human 
being, in every creature." 

"I don't think," said Virginia, "that we have much 
sympathy with the self in animals we kill to eat." 



Eleventh Meeting 175 

"That," I answered, "is another question. It has 
nothing to do with what we are saying now." 

"I think it has," she protested. 

"Then," I said, "if you reverence self, and under- 
stand and respect the self in every person, how could 
you quarrel with any one?" 

"You expect us to know an awful lot," said Vir- 
ginia, "to know every one." 

"Certainly," I answered. "Is not that our idea, 
to reach what we desire through understanding and 
sympathy with every one?" 

They said they couldn't respect every one. Some 
people they couldn't help, as Henry said, pitying. 

I objected strenuously* to that word. All but Henry 
agreed with me. It is always a word of scorn. 

They spoke of "feeling sorry for" people who had 
suffered some loss, feeling sorry, but not pitying. 

"Then," said Marian, "one ought not to say 'sorry 
for' but 'sorry with.' " 

Virginia said if a girl's mother had died, and one 
had not known the mother, one might be sorry for 
her, but not sorry with her. They had a little argu- 
ment, and to stop it I said one might be both sorry 
for and sorry with, but certainly one would have the 
"with" feeling. 

Ruth objected that when there was an argument 
I always made both sides right. 

"Why not?" I asked. "By the light of complete 
vision we do see most things as true which first seemed 
contradictory. Our idea of completeness is to in- 



176 The Seekers 

elude many truths, and show them to be the same 
truth." 

She admitted that. 

Marian spoke of people she liked, but could not 
respect. 

"If you knew them from the inside," I said, "as 
they know themselves, you might feel otherwise." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "I have always thought that 
if anybody knew all about me, knew me just as I 
know myself, they could not help liking me." 

I said: "It seems not much to expect of us, to 
understand our parents, who are so anxious for an 
understanding, and whom we love. After all, we 
do owe them something — when you consider that but 
for them we would not be here ; and we are most of 
us rather glad that we are here." 

"Yes," said Marian, "I would like to stay a while 
longer." 

Now we spoke of many things, many personal 
things, of quarrels and how to avoid them. Virginia 
amused us by saying people often quarreled with her, 
but she never quarreled with them. 

Marian said: "If there's one thing which makes 
people feel mean, angry, self-reproachful and small, 
it is to try to quarrel with some one who won't be 
made angry." 

"Naturally," I said, "they can't help comparing 
themselves with the other person." 

"Yes," said Florence, "I am always sorry and 
angry at myself when the other person keeps cool or 



Eleventh Meeting 177 

is hurt. But when the other person gets angry, too, 
I feel as if I were right." 

"It's an ugly thing to be angry," I said; "it makes 
us so small, shuts us in." 

"How do you mean?" asked Marian. 

"It cuts us off from that other person, makes it 
impossible to understand at least him, and so keeps 
us from completeness and harmony, actually robs us 
of part of ourself." 

Was it all the children's fault, they asked, when 
children and parents failed to understand each other? 

"As it takes two to make a quarrel," I answered, 
"so it takes two to make a misunderstanding. But 
one can stop it. Remember that older people have 
often gone through trials in life that have shaken 
their nerves and made them sensitive and irritable to 
little annoyances." 

Marian asked: "Do you mean fussy?" 

"Yes," I said, "and it is easy to understand. But 
the fact that in many families some of the children 
get along well with the parents, and others do not, 
proves that at least some of the responsibility rests 
with the children." 

We spoke of self-control, of standing, as it were, 
outside and above ourselves — the idea of aloofness — 
and not working like a machine for the impulse of 
the moment. I said I had known people who had 
this trouble in youth, and stopped it with a strong 
resolution, because they saw it was a bad, an ugly and 
a controllable thing. Henry spoke of the old plan 



178 The Seekers 

of counting a hundred before saying anything. We 
none of us liked the idea, possibly because we were 
tired of it; I said, for one, that I did not see how 
counting a hundred could make me change my mind, 
whereas thinking might. I said the best plan was to 
put one's self at once, as it were, inside the other per- 
son, and then one could not possibly say the disagree- 
able thing. Henry, it seems, has only one difficulty, 
that of wanting to express or keep his own opinion at 
the expense of contradicting his elders. I said one 
had always the right to express one's opinion, but 
one might also do it as an opinion, say "I think," or "I 
believe"; that one might always consider how the 
thing said would impress the person listening. Marian 
spoke of people who irritate you by their presence, 
whom you dislike and who grate on you, no matter 
what they may do or say. Then I told them of the 
saving sense of humor; how, if we resolve to be 
amused by people in a pleasant, genial way, to see 
the humor in human life, we may avoid being hurt 
by them or hurting them in return. 

Virginia especially agreed with me, cited incidents 
of being amused by the disagreeable, and spoke of 
Dickens as one who could be amused by all sorts 
of people, even the most "bromidic" or disagreeable. 
Marian said Dickens was amused by every one but 
his heroes and heroines. They almost always seemed 
a hardship to him and to others. 

I said we must use every one for our good. That 



Eleventh Meeting 179 

word to "use people" had been employed in a bad 
sense, but I meant it in a good sense. 

"Whenever you are with any one you don't like, 
think at once what you can get out of that meeting. 
Every human being has something for you, and you 
for him. Self always wants to find self." 

Marian and Ruth immediately thought of people 
from whom they could get nothing. Virginia, who 
does get something from everything, remarked that 
some people seemed to have very little self. 

"To be a human being at all," I answered, "how 
much of self one must have, compared with the ani- 
mals!" 

"I suppose," said she; "that is why some people, 
who have not much, remind me of animals." 

I said I was sorry we had digressed so far, and 
feared we had not arrived anywhere, after all. Flor- 
ence said she liked to confess her sins. And Marian 
answered her that it was a bad habit. 

"It is all," said Marian, "what I have heard be- 
fore, and know to be true, and don't do, anyway." 

"Nothing new?" I asked. "Not even the plan of 
trying to feel at once just what the other person is 
feeling?" 

"Oh, yes, that, perhaps," she said. 

Marian seemed to think I had given her a great 
many dreadful "slams"; but I could not see it so. 
"I am sure I did not," I said. "Oh, no," she an- 
swered quite sarcastically, "not at all." But she 
seemed to bear me no ill-will. Virginia said I wanted 



i8o The Seekers 

them to be good and virtuous. No, I said, I had not 
thought of that. 

"Perhaps," she suggested, "good but not virtu- 
ous, or virtuous but not good?" 

I answered: "All I want you to do is to satisfy 
yourselves. " 

"Is that all!" exclaimed Marian. "After you told 
us how we could never be wholly satisfied, how we 
should always want something more!" 

"The beautiful life must be harmonious," I said. 
"Disjointed beauty is not beautiful. You remember, 
we spoke of the city, how a beautiful house might 
be made to look not at all beautiful by being placed 
next to a high wall, or in any position where it did 
not fit; how the city could not be beautiful until all 
the people combined to build a harmonious city." 

"By itself the house would be beautiful, anyway," 
they said. 

"Yes," I answered, "but in ugly surroundings its 
beauty would be half lost." 

Virginia said: "If I saw a very beautiful little girl 
between two ugly monkeys, I think the little girl 
would look all the more beautiful." 

Marian answered: "I would immediately imagine 
her petting or fondling the two monkeys, and then 
it would look beautiful." 

It turned out, however, that Virginia's monkeys 
were figurative, and that she meant ugly children. 
This was disconcerting to Ruth, Marian and Flor- 
ence, and caused prolonged giggles. 



Eleventh Meeting 181 

I said that would simply be contrast, not discord, 
that contrast might please and make even the ugly 
look beautiful, but discord, two beautiful houses so 
placed together that neither looked well, two colors 
that "killed" each other, these were ugly. Beauty 
had to find for itself or make for itself the right sur- 
roundings, in order to be truly beautiful. 

Florence said : "I think it is a shame people should 
be liked just for their looks. I know girls who are 
liked just because they are pretty, when there's noth- 
ing to them, and others who are homely, but much 
nicer, who are liked less. I try never to let it in- 
fluence me." 

Henry said he never did let it; that he always liked 
people for what they really were, and not for looks. 

"I can't help it," said Virginia. "I know a girl 
who is horrid in every way, and when she is away 
I can't bear her; but the minute I see her I forgive 
her, because she is so beautiful." 

"Perhaps," I said, "if you knew her from the in- 
side, as she knows herself, you might think that no 
one could help liking her." 

"No," said Virginia; "she's one of the people who, 
I feel sure, cannot think that of herself." 

Marian agreed with Virginia. She said when she 
met people she was interested in the good-looking 
ones, and always judged them by their faces. 

"That is different," I said, "to judge people by the 
character written in their faces, as we judge them 
by all things. But though all beauty is good, the 
beauty of the personality, of life itself, is surely best." 



TWELFTH MEETING 

Through inevitable circumstances the club had 
been discontinued for six weeks. But I was in per- 
sonal touch with all the members during this interval. 

u We have not met for so long," I said, "I won- 
der whether you have forgotten anything of what we 
had done?" 

They all assured me that it was clear in their 
minds. Henry said: "It has had time to sink in." 

"I am glad," I went on, "that we happened to stop 
at the end of a part; that now we begin anew at a 
new thing. But I am a little afraid to go on. For 
now we are going to speak of morals, of goodness." 

"Why are you afraid?" asked Marian. 

"BecauseT am so afraid we are going to moralize, 
to become petty." 

"Don't be afraid of that," said Marian; "I have 
had too much experience to be likely to do it." 

"Well, then," I said, "first of all we must find out 
what we consider good, what we mean by the good — 
that misused word — and to distinguish between the 
true and the artificial good. Have you any ideas 
about it?" 

None of them had any definite idea of what they 
meant by the good, or of the distinction between the 

182 



Twelfth Meeting 183 

goody-goodiness which repelled them, and the good- 
ness which they loved. They thought immediately of 
"good" people who are unlovable or stupid. Vir- 
ginia and Marian exchanged remarks about a girl 
they had met that morning at Sunday-school; and all 
through the meeting, until I found effective means 
to stop them, they referred to her as an example. 

"Now," I said, "I will tell you of the true good, 
and by the light of it you will clearly distinguish the 
artificial. You remember the first law of art." 

Henry had the paper with him. It was: "Art is 
a symbol of completeness in a definite shape." 

"So the good, too, is a symbol of completeness in 
a definite shape," I said. "Goodness is always of re- 
lation. It means the right relation, sympathy and 
unity of those who know each other. And the good 
man is the man who makes a complete world, a sym- 
bol of the perfect awakened universe, out of those 
few people whom he knows — that is, of whose exist- 
ence he is aware — and of all that he knows in the 
universe, which is a small part of the w T hole. He 
makes it complete and perfect, by making all his re- 
lations with life complete, and understanding and 
beautiful. You realize that a Robinson Crusoe, alone 
on his desert island, if he never expected to see human 
beings again, could not be either good or bad." 

"Yes, he could," said Virginia, "in the way he 
treated the animals." 

"That is right," I answered. "If you include the 
animals as selves, he could still be good or bad in 



184 The Seekers 

his relation with them. But you see that goodness is 
of relation. It is having our relations right, good and 
sympathetic, as far as they reach. 

"That, then, is the law, the only law. All morali- 
ties and systems were made to uphold and fulfil that 
law, and they all change with the needs of man and 
his circumstances, but that one law is always the 
same, is always true, is the spirit which makes all 
actions either good or bad. For 1 believe there is no 
action in itself either good or bad, but all must be 
tested by this law. 'Is it good?' means: Does it 
make for true and understanding relations between 
men? Do you agree with me?" 

"Yes," they said. 

"Take the laws of Moses, or any system of laws," 
I went on, "and you will see that they were made by 
men, who realized in themselves the one supreme law, 
the law of progress toward the human whole. These 
systems of laws, if followed by people incapable of 
seeing the broad way for themselves, would lead to- 
ward that end. But the lesser laws change with cir- 
cumstance, as a path changes with the landscape. 
Take the Mosaic laws. The first laws, 'Thou shalt 
have no other God,' 'Thou shalt not take his name 
in vain/ and 'Thou shalt keep the Sabbath,' seem to 
us now much less important than some later laws, 
such as 'Thou shalt not steal/ 'Thou shalt not kill,' 
and so on. But if you stop to think, you will see 
that these first were most necessary; for the people's 
idea of God, so much more limited than ours, was 



Twelfth Meeting 185 

still, like ours, the reason for their morality, the 
law of laws, the 'I Am' that gave meaning to good- 
ness. In their condition, if they had not reverenced 
and feared God, they would not have kept the laws 
of Moses. The actions or ways of life we often hear 
called good, but which arouse in us a feeling of con- 
tempt, as if it were goody-goodiness, or self-righteous- 
ness, are actions according to petty laws of goodness, 
by people who do not know the spirit, the great law 
above all laws. Sometimes they are actions no longer 
good at all, acted according to petty laws that we 
have passed. Do you see what I mean?" 

"Give me an example of what you mean," Marian 
said. 

"Many conventions are an example," said Henry. 

"Yes, they may be," I answered. 

"Conventions," said Virginia, "are neither right 
nor wrong." 

"No," I answered, "they are usually a matter of 
convenience. But some people do make the mistake 
of calling them right or wrong. Then again you will 
hear people argue whether or not it is right to tell 
the truth, under all circumstances." 

"You mean," Henry said, "that they argue 
whether or not it is good to tell the truth as truth, 
not whether the truth will help us toward better 
relation." 

"Exactly." 

"I think," said Virginia, "to tell the truth to hurt 
people's feelings is wicked." 



1 86 The Seekers 

Now they were just going to have an argument as 
to truth-telling, when I reminded them that this was 
what we did not want to do. 

Marian spoke of school laws, and said that these 
were often without force or reason, and that she 
saw no great harm in breaking them. When I re- 
membered the folly of laws in many schools, I could 
not disagree with her. "Of course," she said, "one 
gets out of sympathy with that class of mortals called 
teachers." 

"Hardly," said I, "if one is honest at all times. 
And perhaps the meanest, most cowardly lie is the lie 
of evasion and shirking of punishment in such a case." 

Henry said : "Teachers ought not to ask boys and 
girls, 'did you do this or that?' " 

'You are right," I answered; "but, again, no boy 
or girl of spirit, courage and character would hesi- 
tate to answer truthfully. 

"Self-sacrifice," I said, "is a good example of the 
sort of action that is called good in itself, when it is 
not at all so, but has only a definite and limited pur- 
pose in the scheme. I wish to explain it to you. But 
first I want to be sure that you understand this idea 
of good. Is it new to you?" 

"Yes," said Marian, "I never thought of it in 
that way before." 

"You all have said so little," T went on, "I am 
afraid you may not fully understand." 

'There is nothing to say," answered Marian, "for 
it grows so naturally out of everything we have done." 



Twelfth Meeting 187 

"Our whole thought is like a chain," said Virginia, 
"link within link." 

"Alfred," I said, "you are so silent, you don]t 
give us a chance to see how bright you are. Now, tell 
me, what is the good? What do I mean? I want 
to be sure you understand." 

He hesitated. "The good is completeness, har- 
mony." 

"Yes," I said, "but I want it more definitely. The 
good is a sign of that completeness. To the truly 
good man, as much as he knows of the world, or 
dreams of it, is his whole self. And he wants that 
whole self to be right. The good man cannot be 
wholly good until every one else is so. The world 
must be perfect to satisfy his desire for good." 

Ruth said : "It is what you told us before, that we 
cannot be perfect unless the universe is perfect. But 
it seems to me that a man may be just as good, 
though others are bad." 

"Yes," I said, "he can do his best to fill out the 
gaps and make his relations right, but his goodness 
will not wholly satisfy him. On the other hand, the 
self-righteous man, who lives according to precepts 
and rules, is easily satisfied with himself. Goodness 
is beauty. The good is always the beautiful action. 
But goodness, according to laws and precepts which 
are outworn, which we have left behind us, is no 
longer beautiful for us." 

Virginia pointed out that in this, then, goodness 



188 The Seekers 

differed from art, for the objects of art remained 
beautiful through hundreds of years. 

"Six hundred years ago," she said, "men painted 
pictures -which probably cannot be equalled to-day." 

"But," I answered, "a man trying to paint like 
Raphael now, would not paint beautifully." 

"No," said she; "but if he tried to paint like Franz 
Hals or Rembrandt he might." 

"Not at all," I answered. 

"Of course," she admitted, "he would have to 
paint like himself, to be himself." 

"Surely," said I, "and so with goodness. Each 
man has his own particular goodness, according to 
his circumstances and nature. But, just as a beauti- 
ful picture is eternally beautiful, so goodness in the 
past, though it no longer seems good to us for prac- 
tice, is always delightful to think of, though it would 
be horrible to imitate. For instance, the self-imposed 
poverty of St. Francis of Assisi." 

We spoke of asceticism and the ideals of self- 
sacrifice, and then of self-sacrifice itself, as preached 
in our own lives. 

"In the first place," I said, "we must get clear 
in our minds the meaning of happiness. People will 
say to you again and again that the aim of life is hap- 
piness. But if each one of us were to speak of happi- 
ness, and use the same word, we would each mean 
something different. Now, what is happiness?" 

"It is having fun," said Virginia. 

"Yes," I said, "that is all right. But that's only 



Twelfth Meeting 189 

repeating the same thing. What is it that makes us 
happy ?" 

Florence answered: "Having what you like." 

"Yes," I said, "but more than that. It is having 
what you want most. If you liked pie, but you liked 
ice cream better, then pie wouldn't satisfy you, would 
it?" 

"No." 

"What would?" 

"Ice cream and pie both," said Florence. 

We decided, however, after some thought, that we 
would give up pie for ice cream. "And this," I said, 
"is the meaning of self-sacrifice. It is giving up what 
we want for something we want still more. And as 
the thing we want most of all, and for which we 
would give up everything else, is complete harmony, 
sympathy and understanding, you see that in all our 
self-sacrifices we are giving up what we want for what 
we want still more. We are giving up our smaller 
for our larger self." 

"That is just what Booker T. Washington said at 
the lecture this morning," Virginia went on. "He 
said he had never made a single sacrifice, but he had 
always done the thing he loved to do most. It is 
fun to do good. It makes us feel so virtuous. And 
we do it because we like most to see other people 
happy." 

"That is what I mean, Virginia." 

"I don't think it is so, always," said Ruth. "I 
think often people are just forced to give up things 



,190 The Seekers 

and sacrifice themselves, when they don't like it at 
all." 

"That's different," I said, "if it is enforced. I 
meant voluntary self-sacrifice." 

"Even so," she went on, "suppose you are going 
out somewhere, and you have to stay at home with 
some person who is ill, just because you are asked 
to do it. You don't like it, but you do it, anyway." 

"Probably," I answered, "you love that person and 
that person's pleasure far more than you do, say, the 
theatre." 

"No," said Ruth, "perhaps you don't love the per- 
son at all." 

"But you love to feel virtuous," Virginia said, "and 
all the time you stay at home you are saying bad 
things, mentally, about that person." 

"But you stay from choice, you please your bigger 
self and its demands for beauty," I went on; "you 
give up what you w r ant for what you want more." 

"Yes," Virginia said, "for you would be uncom- 
fortable and unhappy if you went." 

"You see how silly and childish it is," I continued, 
"to give up anything for nothing, to deny yourself 
pleasures, to make sacrifices for their own sake. That 
is one of the false virtues which make people self- 
righteous, 'goody-goody' and ridiculous. I know a 
girl who gave up eating butter during Lent because 
she liked butter, and she thought it noble to deny 
herself." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "and I know girls who won't 



Twelfth Meeting 191 

take sundaes during Lent, but drink sodas instead, 
because they like sundaes better." 

I read aloud to them a Ruskin quotation that 
Ruth had brought some time ago : 

"Recollect that 'mors' means death, and delaying; 
and Vita' means life, and growing; and try always, 
not to mortify yourself, but to vivify yourself." 

"You see," I said, "I believe in being selfish, in the 
very largest sense. I believe the whole world, all 
that I know and love, to be my whole self, and I 
want - to make that as good, as true, as harmonious 
as I can. What people usually call selfishness is only 
self-limitation, cutting yourself off." 

"Yes; it is making yourself little." 

"Exactly. Take selfish people, and you will find 
that ihey are not only making others unhappy, but 
making their own lives very small and narrow." 

"They are unhappy themselves," said Florence. 

I told them a story of three apple seedlings. The 
first said: "I will not grow; there is so little room; 
I will not help crowd out the others." He died, a 
weakling. The second said: "I will not bear ap- 
ples, because the effort might spoil the glossy appear- 
ance and fulness of my foliage." He was good to 
look at, but — useless. The third one said: "Apple- 
trees were made to bear apples. I like to do it, I 
want to do it, and I will." And he did, and so served 
himself and many beside. 

"I never could understand the morality," I said, 
"that tells us to live only for others." 



192 The Seekers 

"It would be impossible, " said Henry; "one has 
to live first for one's self." 

"And last for one's self," I went on, "for that 
biggest self which is our own life in relation with all 
that we know. If we lived only for others, others 
would still live for others, and so on, with no end 
and no sense. It is like that idea of living for future 
generations." 

"What of it?" asked Marian. "I am particularly 
interested." 

"That we shall live for future generations, and the 
future generations shall live also for future genera- 
tions, and so on forever and ever!" 

"Unless it were all for the last generation," said 
Henry. 

"But that will never come," I answered, "or, if it 
does, it will surely not be worth while. I believe that 
whoever lives the best life for himself, and does the 
thing he is most impelled to do, for his whole big 
self, is also best for all others. He must be, since 
they are a part of him." 

"It seems to me," said Marian, who had been 
dreaming, "that there is no absolute truth. When 
people claim that they have found the whole truth, 
and try to explain it to me, I never feel convinced!" 

"Does our idea strike you so, Marian?" I asked. 

"Oh, no," she said, "not at all. You never make 
positive statements." 

"No," I answered, "I am willing to grant that what 



Twelfth Meeting 193 

seems true to me now may one day be included in a 
larger truth." 

We spoke a few words, here, of envy. They 
agreed at once that artistic envy, the envying of capa- 
bilities and talents, was impossible to one who felt 
that others were doing things for him, that what he 
lacked in himself he would find in others, for his 
satisfaction. 

"But," said Florence, "there are so many other 
kinds of envy, where other people having the thing 
does you no good." 

"That's true," I said; "a beggar, for instance, 
envying the rich people in a restaurant for their food, 
will not lose his hunger through seeing them eat." 

I told them of the danger and difficulty of our 
philosophy of right and wrong, how I hesitated to 
tell it to them for fear they might misuse it, and 
how much harder it was to guide one's self by so 
big a standard than by an unbeautiful, ready-made 
morality of little laws and precepts. He must take 
the straight and narrow path, who cannot guide him- 
self across the prairies by the path of stars and 
planets. 

Virginia insisted on my repeating some facts I 
had told her lately. A young French girl of good 
education, made desperate- by poverty and lack of 
work, slashed a picture in the Louvre, in order to be 
arrested, get shelter and food, and attract attention 
to the injustice of her lot. We discussed such cases, 



194 * Tlie Seekers 

and decided that where society did so great a wrong, 
the lesser wrong might be part of the cure. 

"I cannot judge people," I said, "when circum- 
stances drive them to do wrong in self-defence." 

We came near forgiving every one, when I re- 
minded them of the sternness of our standard. It 
made us lenient with others, who did not — and per- 
haps could not — know that they might master cir- 
cumstance, and that the whole world was their whole 
self. But with ourselves it made us terribly exacting. 

"Some people are like animals," said Virginia. "I 
can't understand them, and cannot sympathize with 
them." 

"That," I said, "is your loss, you superior animal. 
Ruskin says somewhere, and quite truly, that who 
cannot sympathize with the lower cannot sympathize 
with the higher." 

Now Virginia plunged off into a stream of delight- 
ful nonsense, told us how she sometimes loved and 
sometimes hated herself, how, if she was very happy, 
she had to pay the penalty of reaction, and how in- 
teresting she was, altogether. As a punishment we 
made her keep still for five minutes by the watch. 
I hoped Alfred would talk instead. Suppose we 
punished him by making him talk for five minutes ! 

Florence said: "What I like most of all is to 
be liked. I often envy people their lovableness." 

"Naturally," said I, "that is what we all like most, 
isn't it? 



Twelfth Meeting 195 

"And the truly good person, in our sense of good, 
is also the lovable, beloved person." 

Marian and Virginia exchanged glances. They 
were thinking again of that girl in Sunday-school, 
who, they said, was thoroughly good, but not at all 
lovable. 

"The good person," I said, "is also the intelligent, 
sympathetic person. Sympathy, understanding love, 
is the great virtue. I have made a list of seven vir- 
tues. Would you like to hear them ? First, Love," 

That, they said, included all the others. 

Yes, I answered, it was the chief. Second, Cour- 
age. Courage, they said, to do as we believed. Third, 
Trustworthiness. They all agreed. Fourth, love of 
knowledge. Fifth, love of beauty. Sixth, insight. 
Seventh, a sense of humor ! 

During this time Virginia and Marian were fitting 
each virtue to that girl, and found her lacking only 
in the latter ones, but no more lovable or interesting 
than before. 

"Ruth," I said. 

"Yes." 

"Are you sure they are not speaking of you or 
me?" 

"I don't know," she answered; "perhaps." 

They protested. 

"Do you know the girl, Ruth?" I asked. 

"Yes, I do." 

'"Well," I said, "please bring her to the next meet- 
ing- She interests me." 



196 The Seekers 

Ruth promised, despite the protestations and ex- 
planations of Marian and Virginia. "You would 
know, then, of whom we had been talking," they said. 

"Very well," I answered, "she shall stay away on 
one condition." 

"What is that?" 

"That you don't mention her again. I always 
feel," I went on, "that when any one is badly spoken 
of, I am being criticized behind my back. Just as 
when a race, such as the negroes, for instance, is 
unjustly spoken of, I feel like fighting for my rights; 
for I take it as a mere matter of chance that I didn't 
happen to be one of them. 

"Florence," I continued, "is quite right in wanting 
to be loved. It is the best thing in the world." 

"Except loving," said Virginia. 

"Of course," I answered; "but to want to be loved 
by those we love for what we really are, and truly 
to wish to be what they can truly love, that is the 
whole of goodness, I believe. The only difference 
between vanity and true worth is that the vain person 
wishes to appear to be what is lovable — which is 
very unsafe — and the truly good person wishes to 
be it." 

"You mean," said Henry, "that vanity is company 
manners?" 

"Yes." 

"I don't know," Florence said. "I have liked 
people who used 'company manners' for some com- 
pany, and not for others." 



Twelfth Meeting 197 

"I have known people," said Marian, "who were 
always agreeable and sweet, and appeared to want 
every one to like them, and yet were not a bit lova- 
ble." 

"Naturally," I said, "the person w r ho wishes to 
be loved for what he is, is also willing to be hated 
for it, if he must, by those who think otherwise." I 
said there was a man of whom we had heard much 
during the last days (because of his centenary) who 
seemed to be exactly what we meant by good. This 
was Abraham Lincoln. We spent some time speak- 
ing of him, the man who, it seems to me, might have 
inspired a new American religion. 

"We always sympathize most with those," said 
Henry, "who sympathize with us." 

"We love them most," I said, "but the man of 
large heart will often sympathize with people who 
understand him no better than they understand the 
sunshine : with the bad man, for instance." 

"That is true." 

"In the drama of life," I said, "he who loves 
beauty and his whole self will live so as to make 
that whole beautiful, and for this joy and beauty will 
gladly give up his petty satisfactions. For remember 
that the good life is the beautiful life, and the in- 
flential life. Indeed, every life in this drama has 
immense influence." 

"For good or bad," said Henry. 

"Yes, surely." 



198 The Seekers 

"I thought not," answered Florence; "each one 
has a very, very small influence." 

"In the universe, perhaps, but we know nothing, 
and can know nothing, of that. We cannot make 
comparisons with infinity. But with those we love, 
who know us, in our own family, our own circle of 
friends, the influence of each one is immense. Think 
of any family you know, of your own family, and 
see how much difference each one makes in the whole, 
how each one changes the whole. Each one in- 
fluences all the others, and makes the tone and color 
of life, whether he will or not." 

"I suppose," said Henry, "that even those who 
have no influence, who do nothing, could have an 
influence." 

"They can't help having it, for good or bad. And 
people can know they have this influence, and use it 
consciously, to make life about them as they wish it 
to be. As a woman who comes into a house, if she 
loves beauty and order, will set it in order at once 
and make it beautiful, so that it will be all changed 
because of her, and for her pleasure, so in life we 
can set all things in order and change them to our 
wish, by our presence and character." 

"I don't think," Ruth said, "that the good is al- 
ways beautiful. Often the thing we have to do is 
disagreeable." 

"For instance, what?" I asked. 

"In school work, for example. We have to study 



Twelfth Meeting 199 

subjects that are hard and disagreeable, simply to 
pass." 

"You mean that you have to do disagreeable things 
to get what you want. Naturally. That is self- 
sacrifice. And you cannot always do things as you 
would like to do them. The woman in the house 
might find ugly wallpaper, and not be able to change 
that. But she would find other means of making 
things look better. People can have conscious in- 
fluence; and the difference between those who make 
life good and beautiful, and those who attract atten- 
tion to themselves, is the difference between the play 
in which all the actors are good, and combine to 
make a beautiful play, and the one where there is 
a star who wants a poor cast to set off her charms, 
and produces an inartistic and uneven play." 

"I don't see how one could have conscious in- 
fluence," said Marian; "it seems to me one lives un- 
consciously all the time. I like to dream. I am not 
fond of acting. I don't believe I would ever have 
any conscious influence." 

"To dream and dream and keep on dreaming, and 
not act, is impossible," I said. 

"But," asked Florence, "isn't it just the dreamers 
who do all the great things?" 

"Surely," I answered, "one cannot help influencing 
people, even by one's dreams. But you, Florence, 
you must realize how much difference each member 
of a family makes." 

"Yes, I do." 



200 The Seekers 

"And Virginia, I believe, has often made conscious 
effort toward cheerful influence, and knows what I 
mean. You, too, Ruth; I am certain you know ex- 
actly what I mean, and I hope you and Marian will 
talk it over; for it is an interesting subject" 
"Yes, I know well what you mean." 
As we left I asked Alfred to write a paper for mc. 
"For," I said, "they will begin to think you stupid 
if you show no sign of intelligence. And even I 
would like a tangible proof of what I really know, 
that you do grasp exactly the spirit of what we say. 



>j 



THIRTEENTH MEETING 

Marian was absent. I read aloud Henry's paper : 

"Last Sunday we met for the first time in almost 
two months. We had finished talking about art, and 
we started on a new course in which we shall apply 
our standard of beauty. 

"Our topic last Sunday was Goodness. Good is a 
much-abused word. We often speak disdainfully of 
a person, as being a goody-goody, but susally this 
person, though not necessarily bad, is not good ac- 
cording to the standard of to-day. In the last genera- 
tion, and even in some places to-day, the good child 
is the one which does its work conscientiously, and 
spends all its spare time at sewing or doing odd jobs 
around the house. The 'good man' does his work 
faithfully, never swears or lies under any circum- 
stances, and follows his religion, as it is set down 
for him by others, absolutely to the letter. 

"In speaking of bad, one kind we mentioned was 
that which was once good, but which we have left 
behind us in our progress. This is true of that old 
standard. We have said that what we want is com- 
plete sympathy. That which is beautiful is the sym- 
bol of completeness, and the good is beautiful; and 
therefore the man with a warm, sympathetic heart 

201 



202 The Seekers 

Is the good man. A splendid type of this sort of 
man is Abraham Lincoln, a man who suffered with 
the sufferer, and rejoiced with the happy; a man 
with charity for all and enmity toward none. 

"We condemn the selfish man, but the man who 
does so much for others that he does nothing for 
himself, is to be criticized just as much. Hillel says : 
'If I am not for myself, who will be for me?' 

"There is really no such thing as self-sacrifice, for 
if you voluntarily give up one thing for another, it 
Is because you like it better.' 5 

I said that this paper proved to me, what I had 
already suspected, that in the last meeting I had 
dwelt too much on one side of our subject, and not 
enough on the other. 

"Perhaps," said Henry, "I spent too much time 
describing the man who isn't truly good?" 

"No," I answered, "I don't mind that. But you 
say 'the man with a warm and sympathetic heart is 
the good man.' To be the truly good and great man, 
one must have more than a warm and sympathetic 
heart, more, even, than a feeling of kindliness and 
sympathy for one's fellows. 

"You speak of Lincoln as a man 'with charity for 
all and enmity toward none.' But Lincoln was much 
more than that. This alone would not have made 
him great and splendid. What did?" 

Henry said: "He was a man of determination," 
and, before I could answer, Alfred went on: "He 
wa5 a man of large sympathies." 



Thirteenth Meeting 203 

"Yes," I said, "it is the combination of the two; 
it is more than both. I mean that the great and good 
man is the man whose final far-off aim is the unity 
and completeness of man, who shapes his life and his 
work toward that aim, who works for it, lives for it, 
sacrifices himself and all things to it; and such a 
man was Lincoln. He made mistakes — he used them 
for his cause. His morality, his law, was the union — 
that symbol of the larger union — and for this immense 
self-fulfilment he worked with his might, and died for 
it." 

"Yes," said Henry, "and the great man must make 
mistakes, and go beyond them. Roosevelt, for in- 
stance, is always making mistakes, and then acknowl- 
edging them, and going forward once more." 

"Surely. And so Lincoln worked for the union, 
in sympathy with all men." 

"In one speech," said Henry, "he asked Davis, his 
opponent in the House, to 'help him save the union.' " 

"Now, Henry," I said, "there is another thing 
in your paper— if you don't mind my saying it?" 

"Not at all." 

"I mean that when you quoted Hillel you should 
have finished the quotation: 'If I am not for my- 
self, who will be for me?' and 'but if I am for myself 
alone, what am I then ?' You did not bring out the 
idea of the large and small self, of sacrificing the 
small self to the large, because you love the large 
self above all else, not because you like it better. 
This morning I heard a lecture by Professor Royce, 



204 The Seekers 

of Harvard, and it is curious that he used exactly the 
same words we used in speaking of self-sacrifice. He 
said we sacrifice the small to the large self." 

At this point Ruth came in, and brought Marian's 
paper. I read it at once: 

"Our meeting of the Seekers of February 14th 
was very interesting. We talked about goodness. 
First we tried to define good, and finally reached the 
conclusion that goodness means being in a harmoni- 
ous relation with all our fellow-beings. We should 
try to make our life like some beautiful picture or 
other work of art, making it a complete and har- 
monious whole. All our friends and acquaintances, 
everything we see, hear, do or know, help to make 
this picture; and if we try, we can consciously make 
it what we want. We are masters of our lives, and if 
we remember this, it will influence all our thoughts 
and deeds. We also spoke of happiness, and decided 
that each one has a different kind of happiness, de- 
pending on what he wants most. We also spoke of 
self-sacrifice. There is really no such thing as self- 
sacrifice, because when we give up one thing it is 
always because we think another finer, and because 
we want the other more. We cannot have every 
detail in our picture as clear as the main idea, and 
we must give up something to bring out this idea." 

We all thought this paper excellent. I told Ruth 
briefly what we had said before she came; and then 
we spoke at length of the importance of living our 



Thirteenth Meeting 205 

belief, of working for the cause, of giving ourselves 
to the large self. 

I said: "Every great man has always done just 
that, whether he was writer, philosopher, artist* 
statesman or scientist; he has always devoted himself 
to a work which aimed toward the great union." 

Florence said: "You mean not like the philoso- 
phers, simply to dream of the good, but like the 
artist, to work it out? Didn't you say that, when 
we spoke of choosing the artistic life?" 

"No," I answered, "not quite. The philosopher 
and dreamer also work for the supreme good, by 
showing what it is like, and pointing the way which 
men afterward go." 

"That is what I always thought," said Florence. 

"Yes," I answered, "the philosopher is the teacher 
of teachers. But I chose the artistic way of viewing 
life, because it combines the philosophic and the scien- 
tific way, the vision and the work." 

Virginia now said : "But sometimes men who work 
for completeness, and whose motives are all good, 
do harm, anyway." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Jesus, for instance," she said. "He has done so 
much harm throughout the ages, which he never 
meant to do." 

It was not he who did the harm," I answered; 
it was the people who misunderstood him and mis- 
used his words. No great man ever does all that he 






206 The Seekers 

sets out to do. He cannot, since his aim is no less 
than perfection." 

"I hate perfect people," said Virginia, "or to think 
of any great man as perfect, because it is so in- 
human. I read a book for children, lately, about 
Jesus, which made him out a perfect child. It was 
full of contradictions, for it said first that he was 
a wonder, who w r alked, talked and thought earlier 
than other children, and then it said that he was 
human, and understood all human weaknesses. I 
think that to know men a man must have human 
weaknesses and imperfections." 

"Yes," I said; "and I never thought of Jesus as 
unhumanly perfect. He, too, had his temptation and 
weakness to fight and overcome. Indeed, only the 
petty man could be perfect." 

"But he would not be perfect," said Henry. 

"No," I answered; "but according to his standard, 
he might think himself so. The great man, the Jesus, 
the Lincoln, could never be perfect, for his perfec- 
tion could only come with the completeness and beauty 
and goodness of the whole world. You said of Jesus 
that he did harm, because the doctrine made from 
his words did harm. But you must see that until all 
men are great men, every man must suffer so. Take 
Lincoln, for instance. If he had lived, and kept con- 
trol of the Government, surely the evils of the re- 
construction period would have been avoided. You 
might say, then, that Lincoln did harm, because his 
work led to all that wrong and unhappiness." 



Thirteenth Meeting 207 

"But it has all come right now," said Henry. 

"Hardly," I answered; "it is not nearly right, even 
to-day." 

"And I suppose," Virginia said, "that finally the 
work of Jesus and of every great man will come 
right." 

"And Lincoln's work," said Florence, "will come 
right sooner, because it is not so large as the work 
of Jesus." 

Now I said I wanted to go on to a subject which 
seemed to me especially interesting, the question of 
the making of laws and regulations. Was it not 
a curious thing that men's minds, outrunning their 
other powers, should see clearly the great good for 
which they strove, and should make regulations for 
themselves, which they were even unable to keep? 

Henry and Ruth did not think it at all curious that 
people should make regulations for themselves, but 
it did seem strange that they were unable to keep 
them. 

"To me," I said, "it seems a wonderful thing that 
the sense of beauty and fitness should be so strong 
in the mind of man, should so far outrun his impulses 
and his body, that he creates for himself laws and 
regulations which he then tries to follow, as one sets 
up a ladder which he afterward tries to climb. Of 
course, we no longer believe in revelation, in the old 
Biblical sense, but to us it means revelation from 
within. We do not believe that God dictated his 
laws to Moses, but that Moses created his laws from 



208 The Seekers 

his own sense of love and beauty. Man made his 
own laws. And his laws outrun him." 

"Some people," said Ruth, "make laws for the 
other people, who are not up to them." 

"No," Henry said; "isn't it really all the people 
making laws for themselves?" 

"Yes," I answered, "for finally it is the few making 
laws for all, for themselves, too. It is humanity 
making laws for humanity. Every time a man does 
wrong and knows he is doing wrong, he is breaking 
one of his self-made or self-chosen laws. His mind 
outruns his powers. When Coleridge wanted to break 
himself of the opium-eating habit, he used to hire 
men to stand in front of the drug-stores and prevent 
his going in. He tried to overcome himself with 
himself." 

"I like Coleridge," said Virginia. "I like people 
with weaknesses, who try to overcome them." 

I said I liked them, too, that there was no sight 
so stimulating as that of fights and conquests, as see- 
ing the very thing we longed for, the opposition 
beaten, the difficulties overcome. 

"But even the weak people who fail to win," said 
Virginia; "I like them, too." 

"So do I," I answered; "the fight itself, even the 
failure, the human longing, is worth while. 

"But I want you to see clearly one thing about all 
laws and regulations, and that is that they are sub- 
stitutes. They are substitutes for understanding love, 
or, rather, they are the forerunners of understanding 



Fourteenth Meeting 209 

love, the path of beauty and fitness which the mind 
makes for itself before all our desires are strong and 
harmonious enough to fulfil the supreme desire. Laws 
are the framework on which the house of love shall 
be built. But when the house is finished, the frame- 
work shall no more be seen; nor is it of value in it- 
self, but only as that which upholds the house. I 
w r ould like to talk with you of certain special laws 
of this kind. And the first is justice." 

"I was just going to say that," said Ruth; "it was 
on my lips." 

"I was thinking of it, too," said Henry. 

"I am sorry," I answered, "that I did not give you 
the chance." 

We talked of this subject, and agreed that although 
justice, the sense of equity, was a great and neces- 
sary virtue and a serviceable tool, it was but the tool 
of love, and less than love, and that if our under- 
standing, our sympathy and possession of life were 
complete, we would no longer think of justice, nor 
praise it; that the rigid laws of justice, which must 
oftentimes change, were forever at the service of 
love, which made changes and overcame laws. 

"Some people are not so far advanced as others," 
said Virginia, "and the others lift them up with laws. 
Some people are undeveloped, like animals." 

We could not help laughing at Virginia, with her 
eternal animals. 

"You remember," I said, "I spoke to you of past 
virtues that were good in their time, because the time 



210 The Seekers 

was ripe only for them, and that in their own setting 
interest and delight us, and remain forever beautiful, 
like old pictures, but which would now be ugly, bad 
and out-of-place. Revenge is an example. How the 
old stories of revenge stir and even uplift us, and 
yet how hateful is the idea of revenge in modern 
life! You remember being thrilled and stirred by 
the heroism of some old duel, whereas you could 
find no beauty or heroism in any duel at the present 
time." 

"I think,* said Ruth, "it is often the language in 
which the thing is put that stirs us." 

"It is the spirit of the time and place," I said. 
"No language could make a duel in New York, among 
educated people, inspiring or heroic. With war it 
is the same. Old wars and wars among savages may 
inspire us, because of the heroism and comradeship 
of the fighters. But among modern nations even 
the justified war must be somewhat disgusting, be- 
cause now far more heroism is required in other 
works, and comradeship can mean no less than all 
mankind. 

"Now," said I, "can any of you think of another 
virtue, like justice, which is a substitute for under- 
standing love?" 

"Yes," said Florence; "I think that pity is." 

"Pity?" I said. "Yes— perhaps. Still, that is 
somewhat different. Pity was good once, because 
it was feeling, and feeling is the root of all under- 
standing and sympathy. But self-torturing pity seems 



Thirteenth Meeting 211 

to me a weakness. Sympathy is quite a different, a 
stronger, a braver thing. Who agrees with me?" 

First, they said, would I explain exactly what I 
meant? 

"Sympathy seems to me understanding and love, 
such as you have for yourself. You are willing to 
suffer, since it is a part of life and a part of the 
way. You want to suffer for the cause, if necessary; 
not otherwise. But you don't pity yourself. You 
would be ashamed to make so much of your pain. 
So you do not pity others. You love them, you feel 
with them, you help them bravely. You can bear 
their pain without making a fuss over them, as you 
would bear your own. You consider them as strong 
and brave as yourself." 

They all agreed with me, save Virginia. She said: 
"If I step by accident on the foot of a little dog, and 
he cries out, then that hurts me. And I think it is 
good, because then I know how I would feel if I 
were a little dog, and I try not to do it again. Isn't 
that pity?" 

"Perhaps," I said; "we are apt to pity lower crea- 
tures. But there is no good in the mere feeling of 
physical pain that goes with such things, of the pain 
and thrill up and down your spine when you hurt 
any creature accidentally, and hear it cry out." 

"Don't you think," asked Alfred, "it is only be- 
cause they cry out that we feel it?" 

"Maybe," I said, "for the cry makes us know of 
the pain. At one time, however, a virtue was made 



212 The Seekers 

of the mere suffering with others; and I suppose in 
its good time this was necessary, because it developed 
the feeling which makes sympathy possible." 

"I think it is good," said Virginia, u for when my 
sister was ill, I did not know how she felt, or under- 
stood her, and so I couldn't sympathize with her; 
but later I understood, and then I wished I had felt 
with her as she did. It would -have been better." 

"Perhaps," I said, "for it would have taught you 
to feel. To know how others feel is the best thing 
in the world. But to let that feeling overcome and 
crush you, to pity them, is weakness. I think it is 
a weakness we have all felt, and longed to overcome, 
when we suffered so much with others that we were 
unable to act." 

"Yes, indeed," said Ruth. 

"To be strong to help and strong to do, not over- 
come with world-sorrow," I said, "to face suffering 
in ourselves and others as something to be overcome 
and used!" 

Virginia spoke of a curious calmness in herself 
that made her not act excitedly when anything hap- 
pened, but always wait first to see the outcome. "If 
a child falls in the street," she said, "I don't go 
rushing toward it as some people do, but wait to see 
if it will pick itself up." 

"But if it fell out of a window," said Ruth, "1 
suppose you would rush forward." 

"No," she answered, "not unless it were necessary. 
I would wait to see what happened. When my hat 



Thirteenth Meeting 213 

blows off, I never go rushing after it till I see where 
it is going to stop." 

The juxtaposition of a falling child and a falling 
hat was disconcerting. 

"I know how Virginia feels," I said; "it is the 
artist in her always looking on at all that happens. 
It is a good way, too. Now what other virtues are 
there, like justice, that are really substitutes for right 
feeling ?" 

They could not think of the others. So I men- 
tioned honesty, which is much like justice — even a 
form of it; steered clear of a reef of arguments on 
truth-telling, showed them how honesty would not 
even be mentioned where there was perfect love, and 
went on to the next and most important, namely, 
duty. They had not thought of it in this way before. 
They all disliked the word duty. 

I spoke again of the girl who stays home from 
the theatre with some one she does not love, because 
she feels it to be her duty. Why does she do it? 

"Because she chooses," said Alfred; "she wants to 
do it most." 

"But why?" I asked. 

"She may think," said Ruth, "that the other per- 
son would do the same for her." 

"But she may not think so," I said, "and still she 
would stay." 

"Because," said Virginia, "she would feel good 
afterward." 



214 The Seekers 

"Yes," I said, "in a sense it is that. It would give 
her satisfaction." 

"I would do it," said Ruth, "but I don't think I 
would feel any particular satisfaction afterward." 

"But," I said, "if you didn't do it, you would feel 
dissatisfied with yourself. And therein lies the ex- 
planation of duty. Duty is a substitute for love. It 
is the substitute the mind imposes on us when our 
feelings will not fulfil the scheme of beauty and order 
which is our strongest desire. To do your duty is to 
fulfil your strongest desire — lacking the great love. 
Love shall overcome duty. Duty means only debt. 
It is limited, small. It is the ugly framework that 
love must make before it can build its beautiful dwell- 
ing-place. The strong man always does his duty, 
because he flinches at nothing that is on the path, but 
more and more he loses duty in love." 

Virginia said: "I think it is fun sometimes to 
hate things, such as hating to go to school." 

"Why?" 

"Because to do a thing you hate to do makes you 
feel good sometimes. I like it" 

"We have come to love the hard thing," I said, 
"because it is the growing thing. We get to fancy 
that when we do something hard we must be getting 
ahead, because generally it is true." 

Virginia said: "I like the poem by Rebecca of 
Sunnybrook Farm: 

'When joy and duty clash, 
Let duty go to smash.' " 



Thirteenth Meeting 215 

"I wish joy and duty were the same," I said, "and 
that is just what they are when love conquers. You 
have to do your duty w T hen love fails, and so it often 
seems an unpleasant job." 

I spoke now of promises, and of how unnecessary 
they would be were it not for our failures in love. 
Then we went on to speak of obedience. We said 
that where love was perfect one would not think of 
obedience or disobedience. Obedience is a substi- 
tute for understanding. He who understands does 
not obey. He acts. We spoke of necessary obedi- 
ence, the substitute, and then of the family where 
parents and children were so much at one that obedi- 
ence was never mentioned. 

"A person out of such a home," said Virginia, 
"would not have enough to struggle against. I don't 
like people who are just perfect, and have nothing to 
overcome." 

"We will never reach perfection," they said; and 
they all, save Henry, agreed with me that the great- 
est joy in life was working for, rather than achieving 
our desires. 

"But when we reach perfection," he said, "we won't 
wish for it any more." 

I refused to argue that problematic point. 

I said: "Be sure the strong and good man will 
always find something still to fight and overcome." 

We spoke now of how disobedience might be a 
virtue, of the rebels in wars for freedom, and the 
child who would refuse to obey his parents, if they 



2l6 The Seekers 

ordered him to do what he thought bad; the thief's 
child, for example. 

I said : "The framework is for the house — not for 
itself — and if it doesn't suit the house, it must be 
pulled down." 

Now we had an amusing talk on conventions, in 
which Henry objected to full-dress suits, bouillon cups 
and polite lies. But I showed them how good and 
necessary were conventions properly used, since they 
saved us weighty discussions on trivial matters. I 
said it was a good thing we didn't have to waste time 
and energy deciding what we would eat for break- 
fast each day. 

"But," said Henry, "if some day I don't care to 
eat oatmeal for breakfast, I don't want to feel 
obliged." 

"No," I said; "don't be a slave to convention." 

I went on: "If all things were right, then con- 
formity would be good — though uninteresting — but 
in this growing world we need reformers who smash 
and reform things, whenever conformity becomes de- 
formity." 

You notice that Alfred spoke more at this meeting. 
I had told him that if he did not help us along, and 
show what he meant and thought, he was not living 
up to our idea of completeness and work in unison. 



FOURTEENTH MEETING 

I read Henry's paper: 

"A good man will bring those with whom he comes 
in contact into harmonious relations with himself. 
It is not enough to have a good heart. Many people 
are always meaning to do good, but never do it. It 
is the actions that count; for we said: 'Art (good) 
is self-expression and self-fulfilment.' 

"Many things which we call virtues are only sub- 
stitutes for love and sympathy, which we are out- 
growing. The principal ones are justice, honesty, 
conformity, obedience and pity. 

"Men have not perfect sympathy, but often do 
things at the expense of others. Therefore man, 
realizing his weakness, has made for himself a set of 
laws." 

I objected to his use of the word "pity" along with 
the other substitutes. We had another short talk on 
the subject. 

Virginia said: "I would rather commit suicide 
than be pitied." 

"Then," I answered, "since we do not wish to be 
pitied, we could not, with perfect sympathy, do so 
unto others." 

Virginia went on: "When a person who has some 

217 



2i8 The Seekers 

trouble or loss makes a great fuss over it, I must say 
I don't think very well of him." 

"We expect people to bear life bravely," I said, 
"and to help them do it, to do it altogether. A man 
who is prevented from helping by his own pity is like 
a man who, when he saw another blind, put out his 
own eyes in sorrow, instead of leading the blind." 

I said I wanted to speak of a subject that seemed 
especially to interest Virginia. I meant patriotism, 
but patriotism in a large and unusual sense. What 
w 7 ere their ideas on this subject? Virginia implied 
that patriotism was not good, "because whenever you 
are patriotic for your own country, you have to be 
patriotic against other countries. You seem to be 
praising and helping your own at the expense of 
others." 

"That," I said, "is just the trouble with the false 
view of patriotism, and that view has grown out of 
wars and conquests. For, naturally, whenever peo- 
ple fought for their country, they had to fight against 
another. But I see patriotism — and any loyalty or 
faithfulness — in a larger relation. Think for a mo- 
ment what the word patriotism really means, in its 
verbal root, and you will see how it grows, how it 
begins at home, and ends by including the world. 
What does it mean?" 

Henry remembered that it came from a word mean- 
ing "Father." 

"Yes," I said, "it meant, originally, loyalty to our 






Fourteenth Meeting 219 

fathers, to our family; and so you must see what it 
would finally mean." 

"Because," asked Ruth, "we are related to the 
whole world?" 

"Yes," I answered, "we are related to the whole 
world, we are children of all the nations; but most 
of all, of course, children of our fathers; so that, 
beginning at the centre, we shall spread to all sides, 
yet not lose the centre. The definite thing, the love 
for this land, this home, will come first, and include 
all the others. We will be patriotic for our Father, 
the world." 

"Do you suppose," asked Marian, "that an Eng- 
lishman could be patriotic for the United States?" 

"Yes," I said, "and I am glad you asked that, for 
it gives me a chance to tell you what forms patriot- 
ism is beginning to take. An Englishman, or Ameri- 
can, may be patriotic for Anglo-Saxonism all the 
world over; for the English language and literature 
everywhere; he may dream of it as the world-lan- 
guage; and then, surely, he is patriotic for these 
States, as well as for England. I am not going to 
preach patriotism to you. I know you are all pa- 
triotic for this country, for Americanism, for the idea 
of democracy which America upholds. Surely the 
schools, from first to last, dwell so much upon it 
that an American child can hardly help being pa- 
triotic." 

I was surprised at the burst of answers. 

Marian said, on the contrary, the school with its 



220 The Seekers 

continual, boring insistence on patriotism, almost 
made one hate it ; that no children liked to sing the 
patriotic songs. Ruth objected that singing patri- 
otic songs was not patriotism. Alfred, Marian and 
Ruth spoke of the boredom of patriotic holiday cele- 
brations in school, how the well-known men got up 
and, as Alfred put it, "said the same thing each 
time." Marian said they had patriotism "thrown 
at them in chunks." Florence added, she thought 
we felt unpatriotic, because we didn't want to be 
like those who expressed that kind of patriotism. 

We concluded, however, that after all we were 
patriotic in spite of the schools, and that America 
stood for something big, definite, wonderful. I told 
them that if only they had been away from it more, 
they would understand it better. And they all ad- 
mitted that America, insulted with false criticism, 
would arouse them like a personal insult. 

The picture, with its central, definite object, still 
suggests universal things. So one must begin with 
loyalty to first things, to family and State, before 
one can be loyal to the universe. I spoke of those 
French Socialists whose patriotism for the whole 
world had carried them to the point of unpatriotism 
to France, so that in a war they would wish to see 
their own country destroyed. Their loyalty to work- 
ing-men the world over made them careless of the 
state at home. 

"Only to working-men!" cried Virginia. "But 



Fourteenth Meeting, 221 

I think one need be just as loyal to the rich, and that 
they are quite as much in need of reform and help." 

"I agree with you," I answered. 

Ruth said she could understand those French Social- 
ists very well, and to her it seemed that from their 
own point of view they might be right. 

I answered: "From their own point of view, of 
course. And they do want final, universal good; but 
they don't see that to gain the large one must pre- 
serve the small, that the universal must begin with 
the particular." 

"Like some philosophers," said Henry. 

We discussed the subject of war — all disbelieving 
in it — without coming to any definite conclusion as to 
what we would do under any particular circumstance. 

Virginia asked whether it would be wrong of a 
man, if his country went to war, to refuse to fight 
because he disbelieved in war. Henry said he thought 
it would be better to do as the fighting Quakers did, 
to fight, so that the war might soon be ended. 

Ruth said if all people refused to fight, war would 
end. I agreed with her, but said also: "If a man 
disbelieves in fighting, still, when he is struck, he 
defends himself — that is, if he has any spirit. So 
I would expect a man, no matter what his convictions, 
to defend his country when it is threatened and at- 
tacked." 

"Do you think," they asked, "that Russians can 
be patriotic for Russia?" 

"Yes," I said, "and that is a patriotism of which 



222 The Seekers 

we have not yet spoken, or perhaps thought. It is 
the patriotism that seems unpatriotic. The Russian 
revolutionists are patriotic, not for the Russia of 
to-day, but for the Russia that will be, for the Russia 
they are going to build, for the nation in their hearts. 
Often the most patriotic man is he who criticizes his 
country, who fights against the present state of things, 
who appears disloyal because his loyalty is large. 
Such were the colonists, loyal to the union and in- 
dependence." 

I quoted that slogan at the time of the Spanish- 
American war: "My country, right or wrong, my 
country still." They were indignant at such an ap- 
peal, and agreed with me that blind loyalty was slav- 
ishness. I told a story to illustrate what I meant. 

Suppose a family to be in grave debt, but careless 
about paying, and unwilling to make sacrifices. One 
member, with the family honor at heart, insists on 
these sacrifices and hardships for all, until the debts 
are paid. His brothers and sisters may accuse him 
of unkindness and disloyalty, but he will be the truly 
loyal one. 

Now, I asked, what was the next law in art? 

Henry brought out his paper and read: "Must 
leave out the unimportant." 

"Yes," I said, "and the next one reads: Must 
have variety and many-sidedness. Do you under- 
stand at all how these apply to life?" 

"You don't mean," asked Marian, "that we are 



Fourteenth Meeting, 223 

never to do anything unimportant, that we are al- 
ways to be thinking about it?" 

"No," I answered, "certainly not. But I mean 
that we are to have a definite aim in life, that we 
are to know what we want most of all. Then we can 
avoid everything which interferes with this aim. We 
are to choose the sort of life that will help us to be 
what we wish to be, that will make us whole and 
harmonious." 

"I don't know what I want to be," said Marian. 
"I don't think one need have a definite conscious 
aim. 

"You do not quite understand me, Marian," I an- 
swered. "You need not choose now what your pro- 
fession will be, or what definite thing you want most. 
Very few people as young as you have done that." 

Marian said: "Florence has." 

"Florence?" I asked. "She said she loved most 
to be loved." 

"We all do," said Henry; "to be loved, and to 
love others." 

"I would like," said Florence, "to dance as wel] 
as my dancing teacher." 

I expressed grave doubts as to the permanence of 
this ambition. 

"But," I said, "what I mean, Marian, is that you 
want to be a certain kind of person, that you must 
have an idea of yourself which, even unconsciously, 
you try to attain; and it is this ideal, this vision of 
the self you wish to be, and mean to be, that should 



224 The Seekers 

color and shape your life, as an artist's idea of his 
central figure and meaning controls his whole execu- 
tion." 

"I'm sure I don't think of it all the time," she 
said; "I like just to live along, and dream, and be 
what I happen to be." 

"Now, Marian," I answered, "you are saying what 
you think is true. But I will show you that it is not. 
You live for your desired self, even unconsciously. 
Do you not remember doing or leaving undone cer- 
tain little things which your ideal of yourself wanted 
otherwise, and then reproaching yourself for days 
for this small lapse into selfishness or unkindness?" 

They had all had this annoying experience, as 
well as I myself. Marian told how, when she was 
quite a small girl, something had happened that she 
had never forgotten. A little beggar-girl, with only 
rubbers over her stockings, came to the door and 
asked Marian for old clothes. Marian had been 
reading stories, and was longing to act them. But 
her mother was out, and she had not the courage to 
do anything; so she turned the child away with a 
mumbled excuse about her mother's not being at 
home. And she had never forgiven herself. 

Marian saw that what I meant by a definite aim in 
life was, after all, indefinite enough to suit her. 

Virginia said: "When I want to do some kind 
or good thing which it is hard to do, because I lack 
courage, I make up my mind that I will do it any- 



Fourteenth Meeting 225 

way, without thinking; I walk right in, and then 
the rest is always easy and pleasant." 

u In other words," I answered, "you manage your- 
self. I do believe it is good to know what you want 
to be, and how you want to be it, and then to avoid 
strenuously everything that interferes." 

We spoke of wasted and worthless conversation 
with "outsiders," and I warned them all against bor- 
ing people, or allowing themselves to be bored. It 
is better not to talk at all. Virginia said she always 
made people amuse her, which seemed to us a good 
way. I suggested getting people to tell of them- 
selves, since all human nature is interesting. But 
Ruth objected that people who did it were the worst 
bores, and only conceited people would do it 

"At any rate," I said, "please don't get into the 
habit of making flat conversation, for then you your- 
selves will degenerate into bores." And we decided 
that merriment would cover many ills. 

We spoke of the worth of knowledge. The boys 
and girls have to study subjects unprofitable to them, 
for the sake of passing certain examinations. This, 
of course, is. a definite sacrifice for a definite reason. 
But it is necessary, in all studying, to choose some 
subjects and to sacrifice others. I said I would very 
much like to know everything. 

"Yes," Henry answered, "I always wish I might 
know everything there is to know." 

"But, of course, we can't," I said, "and so we have 



226 The Seekers 

to choose first that knowledge which we need, which 
will make our life as we wish it to be." 

Alfred told us how he had chosen to study French 
and German instead of Latin, because they seemed 
more necessary to him, though he would like to know 
them all. 

"And," I said, "the thing you love you shall seek 
with your might. You must definitely want to be a 
certain sort of a person in life, else you may be no 
sort of person. Have you noticed how some people, 
who were quite charming in youth, 'peter out' when 
they grow older, how they lose all interest in things, 
and become dull? To me that seems unnecessary. 
Age may be just as full, interesting and active as 
youth, to those whose life has a definite aim and 
meaning." 

Henry said: "Yes, I wish to live long. I have 
heard people say they would not like to be old, and 
to be a burden to others." 

"But you," I answered, "mean to live long and 
not be a burden to others." 

"Yes," he said. 

"You must concentrate," I went on; "you must 
get out of life only what you need and want." 

Florence said she couldn't concentrate in her 
studies, except when she loved them. Naturally, I 
answered, it was strong love that made us concen- 
trate. 

Virginia said: "I used to study, only instead of 
studying I looked out of the window." 



Fourteenth Meeting 227 

"But now, at your art," I answered, "you work 
w T ith concentration, because you love it." 

Henry remarked that perhaps, when she was look- 
ing out of the window, she studied the landscapes. 

At this point Marian, hearing voices in the ntxi 
room, whispered to Ruth whether she knew who was 
there. 

"Strange," I said. "Until you spoke of it, I did 
not notice any voices. Do you love this club ? Well, 
I do, too; and when I am here, no matter what 
happened before, or will happen afterward, or may 
be happening now, I think of nothing but what we 
are doing, I forget everything else. Do you re- 
member the difference between the painting and the 
photograph? The photographic plate takes every 
detail, unimportant and meaningless ; the picture con- 
tains only that which makes it complete and beautiful. 
Let your life be a picture, not a photograph. Do 
not let your life be a sensitive plate that cannot de- 
fend itself against any impression. Let it be an 
artist's work, chosen, complete, beautiful. Leave out 
what does not concern you. 

"Now, what is it," I asked, "which all of us do 
love best, and which includes all our lesser loves?" 

Henry answered: "You mean complete sympa- 
thy and understanding." 

"Yes," I went on, "and all our lives are differ- 
ent, definite expressions of that desire." 

We spoke a few words of those people who mis- 
take the means for the end, who make an end of 



228 The Seekers 

business, athletics, or even study, so that they forget 
these are only a means to the end, and destroy or 
waste their own powers in some pettiness. 

"Each life," I said, "must be a different, definite 
expression of the longing for unity." 

"Definite?" asked Marfan again. "If I were al- 
ways to be thinking what sort of person I meant to 
be, I would be dreadfully self-conscious." 

"No," I said, "you would not think it, you would 
live it. Desire is a habit. Self-consciousness of the 
stilted sort attempts to realize what sort of person 
you appear or are, and then to act your part. Then 
you usually fail, and you are usually wrong in your 
estimate. But know what you long to be; and then 
be it, because of your strong desire. It is not neces- 
sary to have chosen your life-work now, but you will 
choose it some day, and meanwhile you want to be 
ready and open for it. You and Alfred have not 
yet chosen, nor need choose. But the others believe 
they have chosen. And there is no reason why each 
one should not do just what he sets out to do. Each 
life and each moment of each life is tremendously im- 
portant. Each man is as great as he loves to be. 
The difference between the great genius and the 
common, scattered man, is the difference in desire. 
Great desire makes great deeds. It is not so much 
capacity, so called, as the desire, the concentration 
and the belief that you can." 

"Self-confidence," they said. 

"Yes, surely. When a man has his call, when he 



Fourteenth Meeting 229 

feels that he must do a thing, then he can. Did you 
ever think of the word 'calling/ what a tremendous 
thing it means ?" 

"Vocation," said Ruth. 

"Yes," I said, "your vocation. Some of us have 
our call early, and some late, but we can always fol- 
low it to the end with love and courage. I believe 
that each one of you is going to do great things. I 
w r ant you to believe that you are going to be great, 
for then you will." 

Henry said: "I mean to be a great man. I know 
I can, if I work for it. When some one found fault 
with me for criticizing Lincoln, because I was no- 
body, I answered that I meant to be greater than 
Lincoln. And I do." 

"And you shall. And I believe that Virginia will 
be as great an artist as she means to be. And I be- 
lieve that if Florence persists, she shall dance better 
than Isadora Duncan, and make of dancing a great 
and noble art." 

"It is so," said Marian and Ruth. "It is an ex- 
pression of the highest art." 

"Surely it is," I said. "And I believe that Ruth 
will reform the whole kindergarten system, and give 
us new and finer ideas on education." 

"I will," said Ruth. 

"I believe it and know it, too," said Marian; "she 
had her call early. She has always been teaching 
little children." 

"Ambition is good," I said; "it is best. He who 



230 The Seekers 

desires great things will do greatly. Genius is desire. 
And great genius is most desire. 

"Each one," I said, "will then be a person with a 
meaning, but for all that a large, many-sided person. 
Do you understand, Marian? In a picture there is 
light and shade, and contrast makes completeness. 
So in life, rest and work and play, merriment and 
seriousness, study and exercise, and all the many 
different things that make up life are needed to make 
it whole. I believe in concentration, in variety." 

"What do you mean," asked Florence, "by concen- 
tration in variety?" 

"I mean," I said, "that we will make every activity 
in life the sort we need, that our pleasures will suit 
our studies. Our taste and liking in every kind of 
thing will harmonize. We will like only good non- 
sense. Even our recreation must have a certain char- 
acter, and satisfy our taste. Each person stands for 
a definite vision of life." 

Virginia said: "At the academy show last year, 
you remember that picture by Pischoto of an Italian 
garden, with a fountain? It was calm, the water 
poured down softly, all was still. At the Spanish 
exhibition, I saw a picture by Sorolla of the same 
spot; but it was jubilant, the water leaped, the sun 
sparkled, everything was gay. It was the difference 
in temperament that made the same spot unlike." 

"Yes," I said; "I am glad you told us that. For 
I believe each person must be a rhythm in life, must 



Fourteenth Meeting 231 

stand for himself, and be a force and a measure of 
life to those about him." 

We spoke a few words more, to make this clear; 
and then I read to them two slips from the Ruskin 
calendar, which Ruth had brought: 

"All that is highest in Art, all that is creative and 
imaginative is formed and created by every artist 
for himself, and cannot be repeated or imitated by 
others." 

"Remember that it is of the very highest impor- 
tance that you should know what you are, and de- 
termine to be the best that you may be." 

Next meeting will be Ruth's meeting on Christian 
Science. 



FIFTEENTH MEETING 

We had our meeting on Christian Science. 

I wish to record it in so far only as it related to our 
planned work, as I think neither Ruth's exposition 
nor our answers were original or enlightening. 

I had given her a list of topics. The first was the 
idea of God. In this we found we agreed, and it gave 
occasion for much reviewing. Ruth had translated 
all her ideas from the vocabulary of Christian Sci- 
ence to that of our club, and this helped her to shape 
her thoughts. We spoke at some length of the 
personal and universal self. They called it "two 
selves, " and I answered them that it was only one, 
the one including the other. 

With the subject and matter and spirit we had some 
trouble. They all understood what I said, but failed 
— I, too — to understand Ruth; and we are not sure 
now whether she and I agree. 

Marian said: "Scientists speak of 'dead matter, 5 
of all matter as dead. Is that so?" 

I repeated my ideas on spirit and matter — all form 
is an expression of spirit — and also insisted on the 
limitations of our knowledge. I said: "Matter 
seems never to be dead, because when one force takes 

232 



Sixteenth Meeting 233 

leave of it, another comes into possession, and decay 
is always the beginning of new life." 

Marian answered: "You mean the particles in 
this table are held together by a force ?" 

"Surely." 

u Whatisit? Does it f eel ?" 

Again I pleaded ignorance. 

We spoke of form as the eternal changing expres- 
sion of spirit, of time as merely the measure and 
rhythm of progress or change. So Ruth found me 
willing to grant that all bad w r as a condition, not an 
unalterable thing, and that time was only a conven- 
tion. 

Concerning immortality Ruth believed all I do, 
and more besides. Alfred now agrees with me. He, 
too, feels that in some way he must continue to be. 

Of the individual — or soul — Ruth thought as I. 
We also agreed on moral good and bad, and on the 
use and manner of prayer. 

Marian asked me: u Why, if mind force forms 
body, can we not make our bodies perfect at once?" 

I answered her that mind force had formed our 
bodies in the past, as they were now, and that our 
present, mental force was making future physical 
conditions; that all things went slowly, and the re- 
sults of the past were inevitable. I spoke of the in- 
fluence mind and action had on the body, on circula- 
tion, for instance. I said again that physical perfec- 
tion could not be the aim, but only one of the condi- 
tions of progress. 



234 The Seekers 

On the subject of disease and cure Ruth and I dis- 
agreed entirely. But this we both held to be not tre- 
mendously important. I do not care here to record 
the arguments — not in the least bitter or heated — 
which we gladly left in air. None of us was in the 
least convinced by Ruth, and we were frank — she, 
as well as we — in our expressions of opinion. 

So we found Ruth was with us in all that mattered, 
and had been candidly with us all the while. The 
children said the club had not changed their views, 
but enlarged and ordered them. 

I read aloud the Christian Science prayer Ruth 
had brought some weeks ago : 

MY PRAYER 

"To be ever conscious of my unity with God, to 
listen for his voice, and hear no other call. To 
separate all error from my thought of man, and see 
him only as my father's image, to show him rever- 
ence and share with him my holiest treasures. 

"To keep my mental home a sacred place, golden 
with* gratitude, redolent with love, white with purity, 
cleansed from the flesh. 

"To send no thought into the world that will not 
bless, or cheer, or purify, or heal. 

"To have no aim but to make earth a fairer, holier 
place, and to rise each day into a higher sense of 
Life and Love." 

We liked all of it, save the words "cleansed from 



Fifteenth Meeting 235 

the flesh. " Ruth explained that this meant cleansed 
from the idea of evil in the flesh. 

"Then," I answered, "the author should have 
said, though it is less poetical, 'cleansed from the 
prejudice against the flesh.' I would agree with 
that" 

Virginia again suggested the subject of animal 
consciousness, by telling Mark Twain's story of the 
cat and the Christian Scientist. Ruth said that just 
now she was studying this subject. 

Florence asked: "Do you believe jelly-fish are 
conscious?" 

I reminded them of Cope's theory of consciousness 
and desire as the cause of life, and of the higher 
consciousness swamping the lower. They remem- 
bered it, and were interested. Virginia said: "It 
is like the stars, which are always there, but cannot 
be seen when the sun shines." 

"Yes," I answered, "the light of our larger con- 
sciousness hides those lesser feelings." 

We spoke of other religions and creeds, and Henry 
used the term — referring to Unitarianism — "a mild 
form of Christianity." 

Marian asked me whether mine was an absolute 
belief in an absolute truth. 

"Because," she said, "I don't believe any one can 
find the absolute truth." 

"You must see," I answered, "that I believe in a 
growing truth. Why else had we called ourselves 




236 The Seekers 

Seekers? And I believe we will be seekers all our 
lives. All I have given you is a direction." 

"I am not sure/' answered she, "that I want just 
one direction." 

u He who would go in all directions at once, must 
stand still," I replied. 

"Perhaps I must," she said. "I believe only one 
thing absolutely, and that is that I am immortal. 
And I don't think I believe that just because I like 
to." Still, when I questioned her on the whole self, 
and progress toward sympathy as the good, she fully 
agreed. She is afraid of accepting too much. This 
is a large truth, different fpofn each one, able to in- 
clude all, growing, forever changing, and forever the 
same, like life itself. I said: "We will always be 
Seekers together." 

I now read Henry's paper: 

"We spent a few minutes in speaking of Patriot- 
ism. Patriotism is loyalty to our fathers, and from 
this it comes to be loyalty toward our country, and 
then to the whole world. No one should be patriotic 
to the extent of 'My country right or wrong,' nor 
should any one be so patriotic in the cause of hu- 
manity as a whole as to forget his duty to his country 
and his home. The patriotic man is not always the 
right man, but the man with 'Firmness in the right 
as God gives him to see right.' 

"Many people spoil their lives, and even those of 
others, by putting unimportant things on a level, 
or perhaps higher than the really important ques- 



Fifteenth Meeting 237 

tions of their life. There are women who try to 
teach or do settlement work because they think it a 
duty, even though they have no taste or ability in 
those lines, and their right place is in their own 
homes. The farmer who comes to the city and tries 
to be a business man, will not, as a rule, succeed. 
Every man has some work at which he is best, and 
he should find out what his calling is, and then 
give his best efforts to that. 

"To represent light in a picture, we must have 
shadows, and without variation life would be dull. 
Hobbies are very good; and if a business man de- 
lights in visiting picture galleries, or baseball games, 
he will be better off if he gratifies these hobbies." 

Henry's paper aroused some comment. They criti- 
cized Henry for saying one should not be "so pa- 
triotic in the cause of humanity as a whole as to 
forget his duty to his country." They said patriot- 
ism for humanity must be patriotism for one's own 
land. We agreed that his error was one of words 
rather than of meaning. 

The girls teased him about his opinion on woman's 
whole duty, and accused him, truly, it seems, of 
being opposed to woman's suffrage. I said I wished 
it were not out of our present plan to argue all those 
questions, but we would not discuss definite social or 
political problems at all, since the girls and boys 
had neither the experience nor the judgment to profit 
by them now. 

"Do you mean," asked Marian, "whether the very 



238 The Seekers 

rich man ought to keep his money, or throw it out 
on the street to everybody ?" 

"Yes — if you wish to put it that way." 

"I am certain," said Florence, "no one could 
change my views on social questions." 

"No," I answered, "probably not. But no doubt 
you will often change them for yourself." 

"Very likely," she said. 

I now read Marian's paper: 

"Our discussion last week at the club was on vari- 
ous subjects. The first was patriotism. We should 
be patriotic for our own country and the whole world. 
If we are rightly patriotic for our own country, we 
will be so for the whole world. It is not patriotism 
to say I am for the whole world, but not for my 
own country. This would be very inconsistent. Pa- 
triotism does not consist of saying your own coun- 
try is always right, and that another is wrong because 
it is not your own. We also discussed the question 
of choosing professions, and agreed that we should 
always choose what we like, whether it is conventional 
or not. It is better to be a good dancer than a poor 
teacher. In doing work for others, we ought not to 
choose settlement work because our friends are doing 
it, or because we or some one else thinks we ought 
to. If it is work that appeals to us, we should do 
it; but, if not, we might go among the young people 
of our own circle, and help them. Another thing 
we spoke of was boring and being bored. Never 
bore any one or allow them to bore you. If you don't 



Fifteenth Meeting 239 

know anything to say worth while saying, keep still. 
If some one else bores you, look at them from some 
standpoint such that, if they don't interest you, at 
least they make you laugh at them. If possible, don't 
frequent the society of people that bore you." 

They asked, had I not said it was wrong to laugh 
"at" people. Yes, I answered, malicious laughter 
was bad, as malicious criticism was bad, but there 
was a kindly laughter, that laughed with people, and 
smiled at their superficial weaknesses in a loving way 
openly, as we smile at our own. In this way we often 
laughed at, and with, the people we loved most. 
But, I said, let us never forget or disrespect the 
self, the growing, wonderful self in every creature, 
especially in every human being. 

Now Virginia and Marian have their troubles* 
They do dislike certain people, and they like talking 
about them. Virginia said a fool was a fool, and 
continued to be a fool, even if you thought of him 
as a developing self. Marian objected that though 
she agreed with me, she couldn't live up to it. 

I said: "I am not going to tell you what to do, 
or preach you a sermon. Only I want you to see 
the thing in a true light. I find it impossible to 
sympathize with some people, and I cannot help dis- 
liking those who have done harm to any one I love. 
But I look upon it as a weakness and limitation of 
myself, which I mean to overcome. Remember that 
every self you fail to understand is a limitation of 
yourself. Every judgment you make of another is 



240 The Seekers 

a judgment of yourself. I wish one could say, not : 
'I hate that person,' but 'I am one who hates that 
person'; the hate being a quality of your own, and 
reflecting only upon yourself." 

"I have said of people," said Virginia, "that I 
did not see how they could have any friends." 

"But they did have friends," I answered, "and the 
limitation was in your power of seeing. When you 
speak ill of a person, you are defining yourself." 

"It would be much pleasanter," said Virginia, "to 
think it was a definition of the other person." 

"No doubt," I answered; "do as you please, but 
remember what you are doing. Realize your limita- 
tion as such, at least." 

Marian said: "I would like to be able to think 
of myself as perfect." 

"At once, Marian, dear? Then make a little set 
of rules for yourself, and follow them, like the petty 
moralists, and be perfect. But we, of the growing 
truth, cannot reach perfection. At least, we want to 
know what is good, and strive for it. I can tell you 
more than I can do, because I see ahead. Let us 
remember that with our judgments and sympathies 
we are measuring ourselves." 



SIXTEENTH MEETING 

I read Henry's paper, which expressed his point 
of view: 

"This meeting was spent in talking of Christian 
Science. We agree that we are seekers for a great 
truth and complete harmony, which we call God. 
We also agree in believing in immortality, though 
we do not know what our existence will be like after 
that of our present state. 

"The difference seemed to lie in our idea of mat- 
ter, and, as the belief in this is closely connected with 
the idea of cure, we did not agree on the latter sub- 
ject. 

"I believe that matter is the creation of spirit; 
and science tells us that no matter ever ceases to 
exist, though it may change its form. As I under- 
stand it, the Christian Scientist says that what we call 
matter is not permanent, and therefore does not exist 
at all. But when he says it is not permanent, I 
think he only considers it as a definite shape, such as 
a house or a table, and he overlooks its different 
forms. 

"If the Christian Scientist's idea of matter were 
correct, his idea of cure would also be correct. I 

241 



242 The Seekers 

think he says: There is no matter, and therefore 
there can be no material suffering. Consequently, all 
pain and sickness are spiritual conditions.' To all 
those who believe in matter as a real and permanent 
thing, this idea is impossible." 

I said: "I must insist on my ignorance on this 
subject. Matter to me seems permanent, a something 
that constantly changes form, unknowable except in 
form; thus form always seems to me the expression 
of an idea, that is, of the spirit. I know matter only 
through spirit or consciousness." They all agreed. 

Now, I said, we would go on to the next law in 
art, and see what its application might be. Did they 
like, I asked, to take up each law of art in turn, and 
see what was its relation to life? 

u Yes," Henry said, "and doing so makes the laws 
in art much clearer to me. When you tell me their 
application to life, it helps me to understand their 
meaning in pictures." 

"That," said I, "depends upon your temperament. 
Another might find just the opposite to be true, that 
knowledge of the laws of art made them clearer in 
life." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "I do." 

"The next law," I said, "is: 'Art must not be 
partisan.' " 

"It seems to me," said Marian, "the application 
of that to life is quite clear already." 

"Why, how would you explain it?" 

Evidently one must take sides in life. How, then, 



Sixteenth Meeting 243 

not be partisan? Virginia said: "Everything has 
two sides." 

"Yes," I answered, "and the question is how to use 
them both, how to be for, and yet not against. Every 
work of art is for something; it stands for beauty, 
order, completeness. But it is against nothing. The 
moment it stands against something, it is not art. 
Lincoln's life shows so well what I mean. I wonder 
whether you will understand how?" 

But they did not. Henry said it was because he 
stood for the Union, but not against slavery, and 
looked upon emancipation as only a side issue, to be 
used for the sake of the Union. The others said still 
more uncomprehending things, and so forced me to 
tell them what I meant. I said Lincoln stood for a 
cause, for an idea, and not against any man. He 
wanted to win all to his side, to make his side the 
whole, the Union. Be for a cause, for a purpose, 
mean something, and strive for its fulfilment; but do 
not be against persons, against parties. After all, 
men can be won only if you are also for them, as 
Lincoln was also for the Southerners. He was will- 
ing to work with his political enemies for the Union, 
since he felt no enmity to men. 

"No," said Henry, "for his Secretary di State, 
Stanley, was his political enemy." 

The Red Cross nurses are not less at one with 
the purpose of their country, though they nurse and 
tend with equal kindness the wounded foe. 

"Then*" Virginia went on, "Dickens is not a great 



244 TKe Seekers 

artist in those parts of his books where he becomes 
bitter, and hates the characters of whom he writes?" 

"No," I answered, "surely not." 

"One feels that writer to be much greater," she 
said, "who sympathizes with and understands and 
loves even his worst characters. And I think Dickens 
has not a good influence in those books where he 
arouses hatred of people, and does not help the feel- 
ing of sympathy." 

We spoke of political reforms — they are quite un- 
formed and uninstructed in social thought — and then 
went on to school factions. Was it not true that they 
admired most the boy or girl who worked for a 
cause, without bitterness against any person? They 
spoke of class presidents and school parties, and 
discussed the thing among themselves. Ruth said 
that the best class president was always the one who 
had most enemies, for some girls liking her so 
much, many others were sure to dislike her. 

I answered: "The person who stands for a 
purpose will have many against him, and he will not! 
care. But he will not be against them. And in the 
end he will win, as Lincoln has won the Southerners. 
They may still be bitter against the North, but they 
join the Northerners in honoring Lincoln, the man, 
for they know he worked for them. 

"You may have noticed that so Tar we Have spoken 
of self-development and personal growth; and to 
you, at present, that is the most important thing. 
But I want to speak a few words of sympathy with 



Sixteenth Meeting 245 

those we do not know, of our relations with the world 
of all men." I said they had too little experience to 
form definite ideas on that tremendous, complicated 
thing called society. I wanted to give them only a 
few of my ideas that might come back to them later, 
when they understood more. 

I said: "I want you to think of society as a big 
self, as the rest of yourself, as one vast whole, in 
which each man in so many mysterious ways affects 
each other man, that none can be right until all are 
right. Have you ever thought of the relations of 
people with other people whom they never know, of 
all the things that are done for us by strangers?" 

"Yes," said Florence, "I have thought of it, for 
we once spoke of it in another class." 

"Consider it," I went on, "this table at which we 
sit, the clothes we wear, the food we eat, everything, 
everything that we use, is made for us by so many 
hands, all related to us and all affected by our need 
and use of them. Have you ever thought what the 
word Democracy means?" 

Yes, they answered, they knew. Henry said it 
meant all people should have their rights. I said 
it meant even more. Did they remember the three 
old catchwords of Democracy: Equality, Frater- 
nity 

"And Liberty," said Ruth. 

"Yes, and Liberty, But I do not believe that all 
people are equal." 



246 The Seekers 

"No," said Virginia, "I am quite sure they are 



not." 



I went on: "Democracy stands for this, that they 
all have the right to be equal. We must grant this, 
not for any altruistic reason, but because we need 
and want them all, because we want to miss nothing. 
We want each one to have the right and the chance 
to develop to be the best he may be, because that, too, 
will be best for us. And we feel that every living 
being is capable of immense development. For there 
is one thing in us all that is equal; whether it be big 
or little, it is the same in us all, and that is self. 
I feel reverence and wonder for self. Every baby 
seems marvellous to me for this reason; he is a new 
self. And whenever I stop to think, when I am with 
strangers, and with people, no matter how uninter- 
esting, I have the strong feeling of kinship and mys- 
tery. Do you ever feel so?" 

"Sometimes," said Virginia. "I feel that way in 
snatches." 

"I never think about it," said Marian, "but some- 
times the feeling comes." 

Florence said: "I feel that way with things more 
than with people." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, for instance, with the ocean or moun- 



tains." 



"But," I said, "there you cannot know. With peo- 
ple it is so real and close." 

The trouble is, they cannot feel so with those they 



Sixteenth Meeting 247 

dislike or wish to criticize; and this subject comes 
up again and again, with amusing variations. 

Virginia takes dislikes to faces; Florence cannot 
"stand" some people whom she greatly admires; 
Marian will not be deprived of the pleasure of 
"knocking" one particular girl. From what I gather, 
their gossip is not of the malicious sort, and this 
over-criticism and sensitiveness is, as I told them, a 
weakness and limitation of youth. They have not 
yet learned to use the good of people for their own 
good. For people in the street, however, they often 
have intense sympathy; and kindness for the stranger. 
Marian spoke again of the apartment houses behind 
her school, with their hundreds of windows. 

"You would like to tear their walls away, wouldn't 
you," asked Ruth, "to see what is going on?" 

"I don't know," said Marian, "but I can't help 
thinking of all those different lives in there." 

Virginia said whenever her mother saw strangers 
who looked as if they liked her, she spoke to them. 

"That," I answered, "can seldom be done, except 
with children; because, you see, the world is not as 
we wish it, though it might be better were it so ; and 
since the other person may not understand, we dare 
not try to understand him. Often on a sunny, happy 
morning, when I get into a car, I feel like greeting 
the motorman, and every person I meet. But how 
can I? They would misunderstand." 

"Perhaps," said Virginia, "that is the motive of 



248 The Seekers 

the fresh young men who sometimes try to speak to 
you on the street." 

''There's just the trouble," I answered, "that it 
isn't their motive, and so it cannot be ours." 

Ruth told us how at the Christian Science church 
that morning she had left something undone which 
she regretted. She said: "There was a young man 
who did not seem to know any one, and he looked 
lonesome and uncomfortable. I felt as if I ought to 
go up to him and make him welcome, but I had not 
the courage." 

"And I think you were right," I answered her, "for 
he might not have understood your motive. And yet 
again he might. It is hard to tell. I am sorry to 
say we have often to wrong people in this matter." 

I spoke of the sufferings and the wrongs of society, 
and of how we must realize that these are our suffer- 
ings and our wrongs. 

"Yes," said. Marian, "but what can we do? We 
can't do anything." 

"There is very little we can do, except to be on 
the right side, and therefore ready to do. I want to 
have you see the thing as it is, to be conscious of the 
whole, as your whole self, so that you will act ac- 
cording to that knowledge." 

"Don't you think," asked Marian, "that a great 
many people act the same way, without knowing why 
they do it?" 

"Yes," I answered, "or else they are only half 
conscious, or think they have some other motive. But 



Sixteenth Meeting 249 

I believe in being fully conscious, and doing things 
with freedom and from conviction." 

"I don't believe," said Marian, "that while I act 
I think of why I am acting." 

"No," I answered, "I am quite certain that you 
do not, and that you never will. No man thinks 
while he acts. The thinking is done long before. And 
then the action comes of itself. If you always think 
and feel a certain way, the good, true way, you need 
not trouble over your actions. They will be right. 
Do you suppose the man who gives up his life to 
save another thinks of what he is doing, and why? 
He is doing what he must But all his life long he 
has been thinking in such a way, and living in such 
a way, that no other action would be possible." 

I said again the quotation from St. Augustine: 
" 'Love God, and do as you please,' for if you love 
the good, wholly, you can do only the good. 

"Remember," I said, "that if the contagiously sick 
are not cared for, we shall all be ill; and, just so, 
starvation, poverty, sin, hurt each one of us, wherever 
they be, and must be cured for our own sake. Let 
us get over the self-righteous, sentimentally virtuous 
feeling which I fear charity has given many people. 
For that reason I have always disliked the word 
'charity.' " 

"Yes," said Ruth, "so have I." 

"But the virtuous feeling is very pleasant," Vir- 
ginia said. 



250 The Seekers 

"Hardly," I answered, "so sane and sound as the 
pleasant feeling of helping ourselves, all together." 

"The word 'charity,' " said Marian, "comes from 
a Greek word meaning gratitude, -the word 'charis.' " 

"I had always thought of it," I said, "as coming 
from the Latin 'carus,' meaning love. But that is 
interesting. For gratitude is always a debt paid. 
And so, I fear, all our charity is a debt partly and 
never wholly paid. The most that a man can give, 
being able to give, still leaves him more than his 
share. And that is why I seldom have the joy un- 
tainted, of which Virginia speaks." 

Virginia said it made her glad to see people happy 
because of her. She said: "Once three of us gave 
a little boy a ten-cent plaything, and it made him so 
happy we felt as though we had done something fine." 

Ruth agreed with me that it was impossible to 
overcome a feeling of personal guilt at the sight of 
misery. 

"You see," I went on, "that for the rich poverty is 
as bad as for the poor. Drunkenness and misery 
ask their price of the rich man." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "for to see poor and drunken 
people bothers the rich man." 

"She is quite right," I said; "poverty does and 
must bother the rich man, and that is just why he 
must get rid of it. Wells, the socialist^ once said 
he dared not let any man be sick or poor or miserable, 
and bring up sick, poor, miserable children, for he 



Sixteenth Meeting 2$ I 

could not tell what man's grandchild would one day 
marry his grandchild." 

"That is an interesting way of looking at it," said 
Marian. "I never thought of that." 

"So you see," I went on, "we can no more praise 
ourselves for helping to better the world than we 
can praise people — except for their good sense and 
wisdom — when they put up hospitals for contagious 
diseases, and separate those who suffer from them. 
Did you ever think of it, that to take care of the 
weak strengthens the strong? The man who cares 
for two gets the strength of two." 

Florence asked: "What if there were no weak?" 
A good question, but an unanswerable one, from lack 
of experience. 

"It is good," I went on, "to use our powers, to 
strengthen them ; and we can use them only through 
others. I have heard people say it is foolish for the 
strong to spend themselves on the weak. To me 
that seems untrue." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "what is their strength for, 
if not to use it!" 

"Sparta," I said, "has left no trace but her history, 
because she cared only for physical strength, and 
wasted the strength and power that are in weakness." 

"I wish she had not left her history," they said, 
thinking of the hard names. 

"Everything leaves history," sighed Marian. 

"We can use all men," I went on, "and every man 
does something for us that we cannot do for our- 



252 The Seekers 

selves. The world is like a vast body, in which hand 
and head do each its part; and the head shall not 
despise the hand." 

"I don't like to think of it in that way," said Ruth, 
"to think cf different people as different parts of the 
body, for some would have to be way down at the 
foot." 

"Oh, Ruth," I answered, "I believe you are 
despising the foot ! That is because you don't think 
well enough of the body. But Florence knows better. 
She probably thinks her feet the most important part 
of all. When I spoke of the body, I meant that each 
part was equally necessary to all the others. But I 
suppose each one of us here would like to think of 
himself as a brain-cell." 

"We like to flatter ourselves," said Henry. 

I spoke to them of the modern trend in judging 
crime and meting punishment. Henry already under- 
stood this. We spoke of "homes" instead of pris- 
ons, of treating the bad as abortive and undeveloped, 
as moral idiots and invalids, and of using for our 
good and their happiness all the powers they pos- 
sessed. We would hate badness, but not the bad 
man. How could we? Each one acts according to 
his desires, and in that sense selfishly; and our char- 
acter depends on how large we are, how much we 
desire. The man who wants to be richer than his 
neighbor will act otherwise than the man who wants 
to share and enjoy the riches and happiness of all 
his neighbors, and make the whole world his home. 



Sixteenth Meeting 253 

Our desires are the measure of our growth. And 
some are more developed than others. 

"Some are so undeveloped," said Virginia, "that 
they seem almost like animals. " 

"I wondered why Virginia hadn't mentioned that 
sooner," said Marian. 

We went on to the next law, that art must give 
the impression of truth. How does it apply? I said 
they must see that the telling of truth was not the 
whole of true relation. 

"And there may be even a kind of truth-telling 
which is essentially untrue; I mean truth told mali- 
ciously, truth told for the purpose of hurting. That 
makes an untrue relation between people, even though 
it be true in fact; just as the ugly picture, truly repre- 
senting an ugly thing in an ugly way, does not seem 
true." 

Virginia said: "As if one woman said to another 
woman : 'I saw your husband drunk last night,' and 
the other woman knew it already. It would be quite 
true, but unnecessary." 
"Exactly." 

I spoke of the importance of praise and encour- 
agement: to others, and of kind, true criticism. At 
first they all protested that they did.not like over-much 
praise. No, I said, not over-much, nor praise alone; 
I hated to be "damned with faint praise," but I loved 
praise and blame combined in such measure, that I 
felt the thing done was worth doing, and yet saw 
where it was wrong, and how it might be righted. 



254 The Seekers 

I said all teachers ought to praise and blame in this 
fashion — never forgetting the praise. 

"They don't have time for it in school," said Ruth. 

"Ruth," I answered her, "just for a teacher of 
small children, such encouraging critical power is 
most necessary." 

"Yes," she said, "I know. I mean to have it." 

I went on: "When I criticize a child's drawing, 
for instance, and find six wrong lines in it, and one 
right line, I will insist on the worth of that right 
line, and show how the other six can and ought to 
be made equally good. One can always point to 
the wrong, without hurting, when one insists on the 
right." 

And now we passed to a difficult and engrossing 
subject: what things are worth while in personal 
social life. At this period of life it concerns the 
girls chiefly; but it could not be skipped for that 
reason. And the boys were interested listeners. 

I spoke again of "prettiness" in art. Did they re- 
member? Virginia said, those painted merely pret- 
tily who tried to please the crowd for the sake of 
money or applause. Yes, I answered, they tried to 
please those who could not understand them or truly 
judge them. And so there is a prettiness of manner 
and life which appeals to the stranger and acquaint- 
ance, but does not win the friend; the merely social 
prettiness, that has no true worth. 

What did I mean ? asked Florence. 

"I mean," I said, "a mixing of values — giving up 



Sixteenth Meeting 255 

what is worth more, for what is worth less, and, 
usually, because we don't realize what we are doing. 
For instance, ever so many will go to much greater 
trouble to please acquaintances than friends, and even 
ask their friends to 'let them off' for the sake of their 
acquaintances." 

"That is," said Florence, "because we know our 
friends will forgive us." 

"Yes," I answered, "and it is a poor reason, for 
finally we will not have any to forgive us." 

"I know a girl," said Marian, "who has ever so 
many acquaintances, and no friends." 

"When I think of society," Virginia said, "in the 
large sense of all people, the only class I don't think 
of as belonging to society, are just the society girls." 

"That," I answered, "is foolish; for they do be- 
long to it, and can be a very important part of it, if 
they wish." 

Marian looked puzzled. "It is all right," she 
asked, "isn't it, for girls to go into society?" 

"Surely," I answered; "not only all right, but very 
good, if they do it in the best way. But I think it a 
terrible waste for girls to do nothing but go into 
society, to live only for that, and rest only for that, 
and care only for the superficial show of it, for luxury 
and money-spending." 

We spoke of luncheons and parties, and all sorts 
of festivities where decoration and show count, and 
tried to put decoration in its subordinate place. "Peo- 
ple are apt," I said, "to lose the real thing in the 



256 The Seekers 

glamor, to care to outdo each other only in expensive- 
ness and show, instead of remembering that pleasant 
surroundings are merely surroundings. Like the 
woman who would spend all her time on her house- 
hold, and waste herself to make it beautiful, instead 
of remembering that its beauty could count only as a 
setting for herself and her greater work. It's a pity 
to waste good art on poor subjects." 

"One must be all-sided," said Marian, "you told 
us so. I know a girl who did college and society and 
housekeeping all at once." 

"And all well?" I asked. 

"I think so," she answered, "though I'm not so 
sure about the college part." 

"That is just the danger," I said, "and a danger 
I wish you all to avoid. I don't want one of you, 
when you leave school, to degenerate into a frivol- 
ous, silly society girl. You won't, will you?" 

They all said they wouldn't. Virginia and Ruth 
were positive they couldn't. 

"Because," I went on, "many girls do it who 
seemed serious and intelligent while at school. I will 
tell you why they do. They are apt to think school 
in itself so intellectual, that they particularly avoid, 
at other times, thinking seriously or reading good 
books or having sensible conversations. And, indeed, 
school does keep them thinking, but not of their own 
accord. So, when they are graduated, they stop all 
thinking, go into society, and wait to get married." 



Sixteenth Meeting 2$7 

"And some women," said Marian, "get so unin- 
teresting after they marry!" 

"Yes," I answered, "it is true, and it is a pity. 
Naturally, every girl expects to marry, and has the 
right to expect it. But if she folds her hands and 
waits for it, or goes out and dances and waits for it, 
she will hardly be fit when the time comes." 

"I think it is disgusting," said Marian, "for a girl 
to be 'on the market.' " 

"So do I," I answered. "And no wonder that 
those girls, when they marry, become dull and 'set- 
tled,' and do not grow with their children. For, you 
see, they were 'finished' when they left school. I 
believe that when a girl leaves school she should go 
on working and growing and learning all her life 
long, whether she marry or not." 

Virginia said: "I have learnt so many, many 
things since I left school last year." 

"Of course," they answered, "at art school." 

"No," she said, "I don't mean that. I learn more 
out of school than in it." 

"The independent woman," I said, "who has some 
work and aim, who can support herself if need be, 
and who does some definite work in life, whether or 
not she supports herself, will not stagnate when she 
marries, because she has been growing all the time. 
When her children grow up, she will grow with them, 
and learn and change and think all her life." 

"Must she do some definite thing?" asked Henry 
skeptically. 



258 The Seekers 

Florence said: "I know you think, Henry, that 
she should be good and help around the house." 

"I think," I said, "that she must have a definite 
thing to do in life, though not necessarily to support 
herself by money-making. She may study, if she 
should wish to prepare for more difficult work, or 
she may have a household of people to care for, and 
even other people's children to bring up, just as a 
married woman might' ' 

Good manners and politeness next engaged our at- 
tention. 

Ruth is a great stickler for manners, especially in 
boys, and not a very good judge of character, so 
she has to make much of evident, superficial char- 
acteristics. Marian, on the other hand, is an excellent 
judge of character. Marian asked me whether I 
thought manners important, and what I thought po- 
liteness meant. I said good manners were the natural 
expression of kindness, but that one often met good 
people who were bores, nevertheless, simply out 
of awkwardness; that many young boys were so, 
and Ruth ought to teach them better. We quoted 
some examples of false good manners, good simply 
for effect, which usually were self-exposed at last. I 
said: "That people with kind manners are thought 
the best-bred and finest, is but another sign that the 
world of men goes in 'our' direction." 

"Yes," said Marian, "I see how you mean." 

Ruth granted she cared too much for good man- 
ners, since they did not always mean what they pro- 



Sixteenth Meeting 259 

fessed to mean. To Florence they seemed unimpor- 
tant, in others, as an index of character. 

Florence said: "I act differently with each person, 
because I believe a different way will please each 
person." 

"Yes," I answered, "we all do it unconsciously; 
and that is why we are as many people as we know!' 

She went on : "When I am with people who like 
to be serious, I talk seriously; and when I am with 
people who like to fool, why, then I am jolly and 
silly." 

"But how about your own taste and personality?" 
I asked. "Does that count?" 

"When I am with some very proper people," said 
Florence, "I love to shock them." 

"Yes," I answered, "it is a temptation. But, 
please, Florence, make the people do what you choose 
sometimes. You remember that you want to be like 
a picture, and not only like a looking-glass." 

"I like to be the controlling person," said Virginia, 
"and make people do what I choose." 

Ruth said: "I don't believe people are ever their 
real self with me, and it is very annoying. They al- 
ways try to seem better." 

"That is," said Marian, "because they know you 
have such high ideals." 

"Yes," Ruth went on, "I suppose you tell them. 
And then they show me only their good side." 

"Ruth," I answered, "if that be true, it need not 
trouble you. If you can really make people always 



260 The Seekers 

show you their good side, you should be glad to have 
the power. For people's good side is a pleasanter 
side to see; and it is excellent practice for them to 
show it. I want you each to be a power and a pur- 
pose in life.'' 

Afterward I had a little talk with Florence. I 
said: U I am afraid I was speaking for your benefit. 
Do you mind?" 

"No," she answered, "but I am not going to be 
that sort of society girl." 

I walked homeward with Virginia and Henry. Vir- 
ginia told me that the club made her think, that 
things we said came back to her weeks and weeks 
afterward, and gave new meanings to life. 

Next week we are going to have the last meeting. 
Henry asked me whether we were going to speak of 
"Aloofness." 

"Yes," I answered, "and it will include all we have 
said until now." 



SEVENTEENTH MEETING 

I READ Henry's paper : 

"We* should not be partisan. Do not fight against 
any one as an enemy, but as a friend who tries to help 
another, by thwarting his wrong purpose. 

"Again we can go to Lincoln for an example. 
When he was president, Lincoln sent to his great 
political enemy, Douglas, and asked for his aid in 
the* approaching struggle. Again, when the war was 
almost over, and those about him said that the South- 
ern leaders would have to be severely dealt with, 
he told them that though he could not avoid the 
hated war, now that their end had been gained, he 
wanted peace, and bore no malice toward his South- 
ern countrymen, whom he would deal with as leniently 
as possible." 

Then I read Marian's paper : 

"At our last meeting of the Seekers we took up the 
application of the two next-to-the-last principles of 
Art to life. The first, 'do not be partisan,' we un- 
derstood easily. But how to stand for a cause with- 
out being partisan, is more difficult to understand. 
By this we mean being for a cause but not against 
another, and being broad-minded enough to under- 

261 



262 The Seekers 

stand the other side. In doing this all personal at- 
tacks are, of course, eliminated. The next principle, 
that art gives the impression of truth, when applied 
to life means being, first, truth-telling. However, if 
by telling the truth we unnecessarily wound a person, 
we had better say nothing. To tell the truth for the 
purpose of hurting some one is almost as bad as tell- 
ing a lie." 

I said I thought it was almost worse. I asked why 
had Henry and Marian both left out an important 
part of our last meeting, the part on our larger social 
relations ? Had we not made it impressive enough ? 
For a moment they all were puzzled. Was it at 
the last meeting we had spoken of that? When I 
reminded them of what had been said, they remem- 
bered. But Henry added: "I did not think we said 
it at the last meeting. It seemed longer ago. Per- 
haps because that is something we have spoken of 
at all the meetings, right along." 

I said I thought all but Alfred and Ruth were not 
greatly interested in larger social questions. Their 
family and school life were more absorbing. I said: 
"I know Alfred is interested in social and political 
problems, because he has told me so. You see, even 
though he won't talk to you, he does sometimes talk 
to me." 

Alfred blushed. He answered: "I care more 
about those outside relations than anything else." 

Marian said: "I am interested, too. But last 
time, just in the midst, we got off to the subject of 



Seventeenth Meeting 263 

'knocking' people. And so I don't think we quite 
finished." 

"Perhaps," I asked, "we had better go over it 
again to-day? And yet I think not. You do seem 
to understand. I don't think you can form your social 
and political opinions now, and I don't care to talk 
much of these things. You see, the boys still have 
five years before they need to vote. And for the 
girls, I imagine it may be even longer." 

"I don't know," said Ruth, "I don't think it will 
be much longer." 

"But," I went on, "we spoke of other things, too. 
Didn't we speak a great deal of woman's life?" 

"You mean choosing professions, and society, and 
so on?" asked Marian. 

"Yes." 

"It is strange, too," said she, "that I forgot to 
write about it. For it impressed me very much, and 
I was talking of it only the other day, when some 
girls were at the house." 

"Now," I said, "we will speak of that strange 
thing, aloofness, the spectator's point of view, that 
a while ago you could not understand. And I think 
to-day you will understand at once, for it is the sum 
and completeness of all we have said. Do you think 
you know now what I mean by aloofness ? What do 
you think, Henry?" 

"I think it means," he said, "understanding with 
sympathy all the people about you, and the outsid- 
ers." 



264 The Seekers 

"Yes," I said; "but it means more than that." 

Alfred looked as if he knew. 

"Well, Alfred?" 

"Doesn't it mean," he asked, "being able to criti- 
cize and judge yourself?" 

"Yes," I said. "That is nearer; it means both, 
and more than both. It means being not only in your- 
self, but above and around, judging all things as if 
you were all the people, from the point of view of 
the whole world. You know what we mean when we 
say God. We mean that whole, the whole Self. It 
means seeing life from God's point of view. It is 
as if we were spectator and also actor; doing our 
own little part in our own little lives, and yet seeing 
the whole, and caring most for that whole, and acting 
our part in relation to it, to please the vast spectator. 
Have you not yourselves had that experience? Have 
you not, even in exciting moments, suddenly felt as 
if you were outside yourself, looking on at yourself, 
and judging?" 

"Yes," said Marian, "I often do. Sometimes I 
laugh at myself. I see how foolish I am, but I go 
right on. For the actor and the spectator do not 
always agree." 

I said: "All goodness and power in life spring 
from making the actor and spectator agree, making 
the larger self include and manage the smaller self, 
and move it as a player moves a pawn. For, remem- 
ber, it is not two separate selves, but one self, a vast 
sense of all life, inclusive of this smaller self which 



Seventeenth Meeting 265 

we control. Do you not realize that all heroism, all 
great and noble action is done so, in the spirit of the 
whole, for the vast spectator within us? When a 
man dies for a cause, he is that cause, he is far more 
than his own small self, and he gladly dies for that 
which includes and fulfils him. When a man gives 
up his life to save another man, he sees the whole 
thing as from above. He and the other man are 
one, are part of the same life, and he spends himself 
for himself. 

"Fear," I said, "cowardice, loss of self-control in 
crises, always comes when the actor forgets the spec- 
tator, when the spectator loses control. 

"If ever you have been in any exciting crisis, and 
kept cool and above fear, then you will know what I 
mean ; how you think of the whole, of all the people, 
and seem to be and control the whole." 

Ruth said she knew one never thought especially 
of one's self at such a time. Experiences, however, 
were scarce. Virginia spoke of the time she was with 
me in a burning trolley car, and how she had been 
interested rather than excited. But then she was a 
very, very little girl. Ruth said she didn't remember 
how she felt when she was almost run down by an 
automobile. 

Marian asked: "One is not always conscious of 
the spectator?" 

"No," I answered, "one is conscious of him only 
at rare moments. For it is the actor who acts and 



g u 4A ac> 



266 The Seekers 

lives, and the spectator controls him. The spectator 
is oftenest silent. He watches. And he must choose." 
jr "But is the operator always sure?" asked Marian. 
"Sometimes you cannot tell what seems to you best, 
until you talk it over with others. " 

"The spectator," I said, "judges and chooses ac- 
cording to all he can know. Surely, he chooses in re- 
lation with others. He can use all experience; he 
goes even beyond his sorrow and pain. Do you 
understand? He goes beyond sorrow and pain, and 
uses them. Do you remember I spoke to you once 
of all things being a memory, of the body itself being 
a memory? The basis of all sympathy is experience 
and memory. So the spectator grows and uses every- 
thing. He is, as it were, in partnership with the 
whole, with God. And he rises on his own knowl- 
edge. The higher he goes, the farther can he see. 
Do you understand that aloofness, the judging from 
the standpoint of the whole, of the whole self, is 
the basis of morality? It is the part judging and 
living for the whole. Those who know this make 
the laws for all, according to their knowledge; and 
the others, who are only actors, whose spectator is 
not wide awake, have to obey." 

At first they protested. Was this true? They did 
not understand. Henry asked did I mean making 
laws to control anarchists? I explained how some 
had to be forced to conform, even for their own 
good, and how the others were free, because the law 



Seventeenth Meeting 267 

that was good for all, they knew to be best for them- 
selves. 

I said: u My own limited personal life is my 
weapon and means, the only weapon and means I 
have to come to completeness. I will always remem- 
ber that it is a means, something to use ; but it is my 
only means, and for that reason it is important and 
precious to me above all else." 

"You mean," said Virginia, "that you don't want 
to dream away your life, like the ascetics of the mid- 
dle ages, who dreamed of the whole, but didn't do 
their part?" 

"Yes," I said, "exactly. It is as if we were all 
watching a vast chessboard, all together interested in 
the game, but each able to control only one pawn, 
and yet anxious to play in such a way as to win the 
game along with the others, each for the sake of the 
whole. And that pawn is our own life; the only 
power we have." 

"Aren't we ourselves the pawns?" asked Marian. 

"No," said Henry; "then we couldn't manage 
them." 

"We are both pawn and player," I said; "for if we 
were only the pawn, in the crowd of little players, 
we could not see ahead, and would go blindly for- 
ward without aim. One must be above the board to 
see it." 

And now I asked : "Shall we look once more over 
all we have said in these few months?" 



268 The Seekers 

They answered that it seemed to them this last 
meeting had been a review. 

"Yes," I answered, "aloofness, which a while ago 
you could not understand, is now wholly clear to you ; 
and more than that, it includes all we have said." 

"It doesn't include it all," said Henry, "but it fin- 
ishes and rounds it out." 

"And our little club is finished," I asked, "artis- 
tically finished?" 

"Yes," they said. 

"I have noticed that sometimes some of you call 
it 'class.' Is it a class? Is it not rather a club; 
have we not all gone forward together?" 

Ruth answered: "It is each or both. Sometimes 
we speak of it as class, or club, or lesson." 

"Surely it is a lesson," said Henry, "because we 
have learned something from it. Whatever you learn 
from is a lesson." 

Well, after all, I suppose I have given them my 
thought; and that is what I must have meant to do. 

I asked them what practical result the ideas had 
had upon their lives. 

"Do you mean in action?" asked Marian. "I never 
stop to think of it when I act, but I find that I refer 
my thoughts again and again to this standard, when I 
don't mean to, or expect to." 

"It is a habit of thought," I answered, "and our 
habits of thought unconsciously make our actions." 

"Yes," said Virginia, "things that happen are al- 
ways bringing to mind the things we speak of here." 



Seventeenth Meeting 269 

"But we have not yet reached an absolute, stiff 
conclusion, have we?" insisted Marion. 

"No," I answered; "we are going to be seekers all 
our lives — are we not? — comrades in the search for 
light?" 

"Surely," they said. 

"And," I went on, "I want something more of 
you. I have noticed that you all are very shy about 
talking of the club to outsiders. But it seems to me 
that it is worth while telling your thought and your 
truth, that you must not only seek, but share what 
you find." 

"You mean," said Virginia, "that we should try 
to get converts, like the Catholics?" 

"Yes," I answered, "converts to seeking." 

"It is very hard," Ruth said, "to talk to outsiders 
of these things. I can tell my mother. She under- 
stands. But we* have made a language of our own 
at the club, and other people don't understand it. 
When I begin to tell them, they ask: 'What sort of 
language are you using?' " 

"That is a pity," I answered, "and yet we could 
hardly help it. Perhaps we should have tried to use 
other words." 

"No," said Ruth, "I think it is a very beautiful 
language, and we must use it. But it makes it hard 
to tell others." 

"People don't want to understand," said Henry. 
"When you begin to tell them what it is about, they 



270 The Seekers 

make up their minds they won't understand such 
things. They set out with that idea." 

Marian said: "I often speak of certain things we 
discussed, just as the other day I was speaking of 
women's professions and social life. But it is im- 
possible to tell the whole idea. One would have to 
begin at the beginning." 

u Yes," I answered, "it would be a whole course. 
So you- have to content yourself with telling the un- 
essential parts. But I hope that you will absorb this 
idea into your life and your actions, and then find 
new words in which to tell the same truth almost un- 
consciously, words that will be made clear to all 
through your own experience. 

"We see clearly how each one of us will draw 
strength and judgment from his limitless whole self. 
And the knowledge of our greatest desire will make 
us teach our lesser desires to follow it, will make 
us shape and use the whole of our life for the thing 
we want and love. 

"And now I wish to ask you each a question. What 
particular thing or power seems most dear and nec- 
essary to you in your own life, in order to fulfil your 
aim. Alfred, tell me. Do you know? Or do you 
want time to think of it?" 

"What I want most," said Alfred, "is the power 
to calculate and judge how things are going to turn 
out. To plan well." 

"What I want most," said Marian, "is to be the 



Seventeenth Meeting 271 

sort of girl I wish to be. To be like my idea of 
myself." 

"What I want most," said Virginia, "is to have 
fun, to be happy." 

"What does that mean?" asked Henry. "Happi- 
ness, for each one of us, is having what we want 
most." 

"Well," said Virginia, "I like life to be pleasant 
for me and for all the people about me." 

"What I want most," said Florence, "is to be 
loved." 

"Only to be loved, or to love, too?" 

"To be loved and to love." 

Ruth said: "That is what I want most, too." 

Henry said: "I agree with them." 

They all seemed to wish they had said it. Virginia 
added: "If you are happy, you are loved." 

"Lately," said I, "this last week, a leader of clubs 
told me he had asked this same question of a club 
of boys. I wanted to see what you would answer." 

"What did they answer?" 

"They, all but one, answered 'Money.' The one 
said he wished to make beautiful things." 

"That is a fine answer," Virginia said. "I'm sure 
I would like him." 

"I know," said Henry, "a great many boys feel 
that way. I happen to know of that club. One of 
those boys said to me lately, what he wanted most 
was to have lots of money, so he could enjoy himself. 



272 The Seekers 

But I think after he had the money, he would not 
find the enjoyment satisfying." 

"Of course," I answered, "money is necessary to 
life; that is, the means of life are necessary to life." 

"But one can earn those," said they. 

Marian said: "If I were as strong, capable and 
good as I would like, and just the sort of person I 
mean to be, it would be easy to earn money." 

Ruth said: "If one is loved and loves many peo- 
ple, one is sure to find some way of getting enough 
money to live. I don't mean that people will thrust 
it on you, but you are sure to find the way to get 
whatever you need." 

I said: "Money is only, as it were, a certificate 
of power; for so much work, you are given the 
means to go on working and living. But the great 
problem is to make the work itself worth more to 
us than the payment. And I am afraid with most 
people it is not so. Money is a means for work, for 
life, for fulfilment. If things were properly ad- 
justed, and society perfect, each man would work for 
his livelihood at the work which he loved most to 
do." 

Virginia said: "I would rather be a pauper than 
not be an artist." 

I answered: "I hope each one of you will find the 
means to do the work you love, and make it your 
livelihood. For that is the only way to justify both 
work and wage." 

Then I said: "Before we part and plan to meet 



Seventeenth Meeting 273 

again, I am going to tell you something very exciting. 
I am almost afraid to say it." 

"What is it? Tell us, quick." 

"Do you remember, I told you I was keeping min- 
utes of the club?" 

"Yes, that is why you wanted our papers." 

"Well, they are not ordinary minutes. They are 
an exact account of all we have done and said." And 
then I told them of this book. 

They were delighted. "We are all going to be 
put into a book," they said. 

"Yes," I answered, "it will be a book, and you are 
all to be in it. But who knows whether any one else 
will care? Perhaps it will never be published." 

"Even if it isn't published," said Henry, "it will 
be a book." 

"What will it be called?" they asked. 

" The Seekers,' of course." 

"You ought to call it 'The Pathfinder/ " said 
Henry. "That would sound more romantic and in- 
teresting, and attract people." 

Would I dedicate it to them? they asked. 

"No, certainly not," I said; "you are all helping me 
write it. We will dedicate it to all Seekers." 

What names would I use? they asked. 

I would use their right first names, I said. Weren't 
they willing? 

Yes, yes, they were willing. 

"For," I said, "one could scarcely make up prettier 



274 The Seekers 

names: I like them all, Marian, Ruth, Florence, Vir- 
ginia, Henry and Alfred." 

"Yes," answered Marian, "we like our own 
names." 

"And you have really helped me to write it," I 
said, "for I have all your papers*. That's why I 
wanted them, to prove that I was not inventing the 
whole thing." 

"Are you putting them in just as we wrote them?" 
asked Marian. 

"Yes, exactly." 

"Oh, please," she begged, "correct my spelling and 
my bad construction." 

"I will correct your spelling and your punctuation, 
but nothing else." 

"Oh, please," she said, "change the places where 
I repeated myself. I wrote them so hastily." 

"I suppose," I said, "that what was good enough 
for me will be good enough for any one. Don't you 
think so? I always wanted to write a book like 
this, and as I didn't have brains enough to invent 
it alone, I made you help me. It is a real live book. 
We have lived it together." 

Now they asked me crowds of questions. Had I 
put in all the nonsense? Yes, every bit. "Then we 
will laugh at ourselves," said Marian. Had I put 
in every time Virginia mentioned animals? Yes, al- 
most every time. It must be very interesting, they 
said. "Did you write down every time we laughed ?" 



Seventeenth Meeting 27$ 

No, I took that for granted. And did I write down 
when Florence said brother Arthur told her things ? 
lYes. And would I leave that in? Certainly. And 
would I let them see it? Yes, as soon as possible. 



APPENDIX 

• The notes used by the leader at each meeting, and 
slightly remodeled afterward, as experience showed 
them to be faulty, are here presented, in the hope that 
they may be of use in some other club. Certain clubs 
have been formed by some of the original Seekers, 
in which the text of the book itself is being read 
aloud and discussed. But were an older person lead- 
ing the club — and that is always to be desired — he 
might find it far more stimulating and fruitful to con- 
duct the meetings by directing the conversation along 
the line of these notes. No doubt if he made this 
use of my experience, he would, by adding his own, 
give new value to the outcome. 

NOTES 

FIRST MEETING 

Why Are Our Religions Unsatisfying, and What 

Shall We Dol 

I. Conditions To-day: 
a. Religions destroy religion. If you are wrong, I 
might be wrong. 

277 



278 Appendix 

b. Men cling to traditional, half-conscious belief, 
or build up an ethic or agnostic faith, because 
man must live by faith. 

II. Historic Reasons for Present Conditions : 

a. Initiated and popular religion in history: 

1. India; castes and the Brahmans. 

2. Egypt; secret priesthood, annexed beliefs, 
and interpretations of myths. 

3. Greece; Rome; early Catholicism; the 
priests. 

b. Analysis of initiated and popular belief: 

1. Myths of Orpheus; of Moses and the 
Burning Bush; of the divine parentage of 
Jesus. 

2. The initiated is the religion of poetry and 
prophecy, of symbols. These, taken liter- 
ally by the people, become a religion of 
idols and prose. One is a moving spirit, 
the other a graven image. Words can be 
idols. 

c. The modern trend: 

1. Democratic spirit r ( since Reformation)* de- 
stroys initiated religion, keeps popular re- 
ligion. 

2. Science destroys popular myths. 

III. What Must We Do To-day? 

a. Scientific knowledge destroys popular myths, 
but does not replace religion: 
1. Every scientist has a philosophy or faith. 



Appendix 279 

2. Science fosters new popular delusions, built 
on its literal facts, such as atheism and 
scientific superstitions of half-knowledge. 

b. There is absolute religious knowledge: 

1. Its record in history: Moses, Jesus, etc. 

2. Its testimony in our own selves : 

(What do we know?) 

c. In a democracy every one must attain this knowl- 
edge; each must be initiated; every man shall be 
a prophet. 

IV. What Does Each One Believe Concern- 
ing God? 

(Question for next week.) 

SECOND MEETING 

God } and the Meaning of Progress 

I. The Idea of God a Personal Conviction: 

a. A realization to be achieved, but, after that, 
silence on the subject. Sacredness of the word. 

b. Members' individual ideas of God. 

c. My idea stated: 

1. God as Self (read from Vedas), as the 
completion of myself. "I am that I am." 

2. The aspiration toward complete sympathy, 
consciousness (selfhood) as the aspiration 
of God, and the aim of progress. 

3. The idea of "holiness" meaning "whole- 
ness." 



280 Appendix 

II. Historic Ideas of God: 

a. The inner meaning of polytheism : many aspects 
of one God. 

b. The inner meaning of trinity: the three as one, 
as the contrast of life, and its unity. A true 
paradox. Myself, the other Self, and love, the 
holy spirit. 

c. The inner meaning of dualism: the two»are two 
sides of one thing, the negative and# the posi- 
tive. Light makes darkness. 

d. Personal, parental, and all other ideas of God 
are included in our larger view. The unity em- 
braces all ideas and diversities. 

III. Progress As the Trend Toward Complete 
Self: 

a. Throughout history the only progress has been 
toward greater understanding and brotherhood : 
1. The value of railroads, telephones, etc. 

h. The -good is whatever leads toward understand- 
ing, sympathy, wholeness. 

c. The bad is whatever does not lead thither: 

1. The bad is what was once good, and has 
been passed. 

2. Or sometimes it is the necessary result of 
an experimental progress. 

3. Things are not "good" and "bad," but bet- 
ter and worse. Therefore evil itself is 
proof of progress. 



Appendix 281 

d. The will toward good is in the world and our- 
selves. 

1. Dissatisfaction is the will toward progress. 

2. We use all bad things for the great good 
that we love. 

(This meeting might be divided into two, one on 
god, and one on progress.) 

THIRD MEETING 

Matter and Spirit 

I. Short Review: 

a. What is the aim of life? 

b. How do you explain good and bad? 

II. Are Matter and Spirit Antagonistic, or 
Like Good and Bad, to be Explained 
Through Each Other? 

a. All matter has shape or idea: 

1. Matter takes the shape of spirit. 

2. We know only the spirit, or idea, because 
all things come to us through our senses. 

3. Pure matter, if it exist, is a thing we cannot 
experience. 

III. Matter is the Medium Through Which 
Spirit Expresses Itself : 

a. Expression is the means for reaching under- 
standing. 

b. All expression, at present, is through so-called 
material means. 



282 Appendix 

IV. Spirit Can Do All Things in the Future : 

a. "Immovable" physical conditions are the re- 
sult of will or spirit in the past. 

1. Our ancestors. 

2. The mental beginnings of all physical ills. 

b. Spirit force is the only shaping force in a uni- 
verse of spirit or will. 

1, One can, therefore, control the physical. 

2. One can shape one's destiny. 



FOURTH MEETING 

Evolution 

I. The Place of Evolution in a Religious En- 
quiry : 

a. We must believe in that, or in special creation, 

1. Every religion has a theory of creation. 

2. Evolution is a theory of creation. 

b. It may throw light on the means of progress. 

II. Evolution Means Descent of All Crea- 
tures from a Common One-celled Ances- 
tral Form : 

a. Physical proof of the theory: 

1. In likeness of structure. 

2. In rudimentary organs. 

3. In geological records. 

4. In the Law of Recapitulation. 



Appendix 283 

III, Theories of the Process of Evolution : 

a. Natural Selection : 

1. Variations in all directions, and adaptation. 

2. Adaptation a struggle for life. 

or. For place. 
p. For food. 

y. For protection, through imitative color 
or form. 

3. The value of artificial selection as partly 
showing us the processes of natural selec- 
tion* 

4. What natural selection fails to explain. 

b. The theory of Sexual Selection, and its short- 
comings. 

c. The auxiliary theory of Isolation. 

IV. The Philosophical Significance of Evo- 
lution : 

a. Evolution a self-evolving'of uncreated life. 

1. Wish, desire, love cause all change and 
creation. 

2. Progress is from within, of our own will. 

3. Change or re-birth necessitates death. 

a. Death makes room for young. 
A We die for the sake of life. 

b. Evolution and the aim of life: 

1. Fitness and harmony the test of life. 

2. It goes from likeness to unlikeness and 
recognition. 



284 Appendix 

3. Pain, disease, death and changing stand- 
ards of good and bad are the path of prog- 
ress toward wholeness and understanding. 
c. Evolution the simplest, clearest proof of rela- 
tionship. 

[Note. — For reference and illustrations, the first vol- 
ume of Romanes' "Darwin and After Dar- 
win" is more convenient to use and show 
than Darwin's own works.] 

FIFTH MEETING 
Prayer 

I. A Communion, Not a Begging: 

a. In a world that goes toward its own desire — 
which is also ours — it is folly to ask one's vast 
Self for anything. 

b. Prayer is a momentary consciousness of the vast 
Self which is God. 

II. The Value of Prayer : 

a. To be conscious, by an effort, of the vast one- 
ness, gives us renewed calmness and strength. 

b. To pray for what we can be is to call forth the 
power to be it. 

c. Prayer puts us in a state of mind in which we 
draw upon the endless source of power and 
possibility : 

1. The value, therefore, of prayer before 
sleep. 



Appendix 285 

III. The Manner of Prayer: 

a. By conscious words that give the communion. 

b. By an occasional state of mind. 

c. By every creative action. 

d. By the whole attitude of our life. 



SIXTH MEETING 

Immortality 

I. Importance to Us of an Opinion Concern* 
ing Death and Immortality: 

a. We know we must die soon: 

1. Speak of the numberless generations of 
life. 

b. We live according to our expectations : 

1. Relation throughout history of beliefs con- 
cerning immortality and of the morality 
of peoples. 

2. Good and bad effects of belief in heaven 
and hell. 

II. Knowledge Concerning Immortality: 
a. What is Knowledge? 

1. The relativity of all knowledge. 

2. Knowledge through conviction loses force 
when there is disagreement. 

3. Knowledge through analogy is like circum- 
stantial evidence. 



286 Appendix 

b. We know : 

i. That matter and force do not die. 

a. We know of nothing that is positively 
mortal. 

2. That life works in a certain direction. 

3. That death and re-birth are the means of 
moving in that direction, i.e., of progress. 

4. That this progress is of the spirit or self. 

5. That we are forever a part of the world, 
related to the whole. 

6. As we know nothing but consciousness or 
self, we believe it must be immortal, though 
we have no proof. 

III. The Theory of Race-immortality as an 
Ideal : 

a. It is more improbable than self-immortality. 

1. All planets die. 

2. The last generation, dies, too. 

b. It is not true immortality: 

1. The thing we cannot transmit is the Self 
which loves and seeks. 

IV. Memory and Personality : 

a. Admission of ignorance and indifference. Why? 

1. Everything is a memory and a prophecy, 
since everything exists forever, and ad- 
vances. 

2. The body is a memory. 

3. Memory must continue at least in its re- 
sults on the self, if not more definitely. 



Appendix 287 

Z>. Love and Meeting: 

1. Love may have other satisfactions than we 
dream of. 

2. We are all one, and cannot be separated. 

S V. "I Am" Expresses Immortality: 

a. Each least thing is eternal and universal. 



SEVENTH MEETING 

The Meaning of Beauty 

I. Beauty is the Symbol of Completeness and 
Harmony : 

a. This is the reason beauty delights us: 

1. It pictures the aim and desire of our whole 
life. 
b> The smallest thing can be as a universe in itself, 
if it be complete and harmonious, i.e., perfect : 
1. A drop as well as a planet; a dog, in his 
way, as well as a man; a day as well as a 
century. 

II. The Good, the True and the Beautiful 
Have the Same End, and Are Sought, Re- 
spectively, by Philosophy, Science and 
Art: 

a. Philosophy seeks the whole at once, therefore 
can nerer reach that completeness. 



288 Appendix 

b. Science seeks individual truths, not the moral 
truth, or aim: 

i. Darwin, the philosophical scientist. 

c. Art gives us that completeness, our aim, sym- 
bolized in a small and definite shape. 

III. Genius is the Common Human Quality, 
Distinct from Talent: 

a. The Genius differs not in kind, but in degree, 
from his fellows. 

b. The desire for understanding and completeness, 
present in some measure in all, is genius. 

c. The understanding in the spectator is akin to 
the genius in the artist. 

IV. Talent is the Power of Expression : 

a. To see all things as distinct wholes, imperson 
ally. 

b. The skill to portray, and to handle material. 

c. Genius and talent vary in degrees of relation in 
different artists' work: 

1. The great idea, imperfectly executed. 

2. The small idea in perfect form. 

V. Art as the Symbol of Completeness and 
Creative Expression : 

a. The sublime lie of the Symbol, truer than fact: 
I. The effect of removal from life, of un- 
reality, in relation to beauty. It seems 
more self-sufficient. 



Appendix 289 

A complete vision must not take sides: 
1. When art is partisan, for something, it is 
also against something. Complete repre- 
sentation. 
Creative art gives us the joy of play, of creation : 
1. Play — interplay — is the progress and will 
of life, and work but a name for the dis- 
agreeable but necessary part of the game. 



EIGHTH MEETING 

Art 

I. Reason for ^Esthetic Enquiry: 

a. Art (creation) is the service of religion. 

b. Laws of beauty (completeness) may give us 
laws for life. 

c. Will prepare us to deal more sanely and surely 
with the involved problems of conduct. 

II. Art in the Novel : 

a. Completeness in the story: 

1. Exclusion of unimportant and irrelevant 
matter. 
a. The "story-teller" in us all. 
/?• The distractions of real life, with its 

far-relatedness. 
Y % The "outside" event in melodrama too 
like life. 



290 Appendix 

2. Exclusion of author's one-sided moral ver- 
dict. 

3. Must not be "for" some characters, and 
"against" others. 

b. Understanding of Life in novel: 

1. False simplicity of poetic justice, of all 
good, and all bad. 

2. Cant phrases offend because they appear 
imitative, not sincere. 

3. Psychological and dramatic treatment: 

a. Dramatic writer trusts reader's insight. 
fi m Action is more convincing than descrip- 
tion of motive. 

4. Humor and wit: 

a. Humor is knowledge of human nature, 
its contrasted greatness and littleness. 

/J-Wit is a juggling of words into con- 
trasted or incongruous effects. 

y. Both are a bringing together of the in- 
congruous, In a paradox of unity. 



NINTH MEETING 

Art (Continued) 

L Art in Poetry: 

a. Difference between Poetry and Prose : 

1. Poetry is "set to music," and the rhythm 
carries part of the message. 



Appendix 29 r 

2. This unreality or distance from life makes 
it more complete and beautiful in itself. 

3. The emotions and imagination picture com- 
pleteness more easily than the intellect: 

a. Because the desire for completeness is 
a feeling. 
b. Completeness and understanding in Poetry : 

1. Metaphor and simile a relationing of far- 
off things. 

2. Symbol in Play replaces them: 

a. The Fairy-story. 

3. Taking sides destroys poetry. 

4. Exaggerated and conventional phrases arc 
weak because they are insincere. 

II. Art in Music : 

a. Music is itself harmony and completeness: 
I. The most intangible and removed, it is yet 
the most satisfying symbol of completeness 
and harmony. 

III. The Opera: 

a. Its attempt to combine all the Arts in one har- 
monious expression. 

IV. Art in Painting: 

a. Unity or completeness in painting: 

I. Point of interest; with radiating lines, bal- 
ance, and other means of making it promi- 
nent. 



29 2 Appendix 

2. The cycle of colors, complete color, and the 
contrast of light and darkness. 

3. A story, not embodied in the picture itself, 
but needing words of explanation, spoils 
unity. 

4* Unnecessary detail, detracting from cen- 
tral interest and motive, also spoils unity, 
h. Truth in painting: 

1. Falseness of photographic truth, because of 
its lack of unity and purpose. 

a. The "out-of-focus" and imaginatively 
planned photograph sometimes artistic. 

2. Perspective, the painter's vision of the 
single complete experience. 

3. To see beauty in things is to see the truth. 

4. "Prettiness," the result of catering to the 
shortcomings of the spectator's taste, is a 
violation of the artist's taste or sense of 
completeness and truth. 

g. Knowledge of life (anatomy) is necessary: 
a. One must understand life to portray it. 

y. Sculpture: 

a. The Greek Drama of the visual Arts : 

I. The unlifelikeness of the material, the re- 
moval from life, makes it more beautiful, 
and a truer symbol. 

b. Expresses idea through attitude of the human 
form. 



Appendix 293 

VI. Architecture: 

a. Like music's, its appeal is to the emotions, with- 
out definite sense or lif elikeness ; but speaks as 
life itself. 

b. To be complete, it must express outwardly its 
inner use and meaning. 

c. To be sincere, or true, it must express the spirit 
of land and people. 

[Note. — This ninth meeting might profitably be di- 
vided into two.] 

TENTH MEETING 
Shall We Make an Art of Life? 

I. Truth, Goodness and Beauty, but the 
Greatest of these is Beauty, Which Com- 
bines the Other Two : 

a. Science is knowledge of facts. 

b. Philosophy is vision of truth or aim. 

c. Art is using our knowledge to create what we 
seek. Action and purpose. 

II. Art is Self-expression, Creation, Action, 
Relationing : 

a. All life, all being, is action, or self-expression. 

b. All power in the world is imaginative, creative 
thought-power : 

1. All things must be imagined before they 
can be known or done. 



294 Appendix 

III. All Great Action, All Goodness, All 
Power in Life Follows the Same Laws as 
Art: 

a. Therefore let us discover the laws of all arts, 
and see whether they can be applied to life. 

IV. The Message of All the Arts: 
a. All have the same laws : 

1. Art is the symbol of completeness in a defi- 
nite shape. 

2. Is self-expression and self-fulfilment. 

3. Must leave out the unimportant. 

4. Must have variety and many-sidedness. 

5. Must not be partisan, and must be sympa- 
thetic. 

6. Must give the impression of truth. 

7. Must be aloof, that is, separate from life, 
and sec things, as it were, from a distance, 
in their wholeness. 

V. Review and Conclusion : 

a. Each smallest thing can symbolize the whole: 

1. Each human life is a symbol of the com- 
plete Self, in a definite shape. 

2. Each is deserving of reverence: 

a. Reverence is the small self awed before 

its own vastness. 

[Note. — As the eleventh meeting was somewhat 

of a digression, and as the notes taken 

were covered in later meetings, it is here 

omitted.] 



Appendix 295 

TWELFTH MEETING 

What is Goodness? 

I. Each Life, to be Good or Beautiful, Must 
be a Symbol of that Perfect or Complete 
Life for Which We Long: 

a. Life — the symbol of complete Self in a definite 
shape. 

b. The good man makes all he knows and touches 
a complete, harmonious whole: 

1. Goodness is always of relation. 

2. One cannot be perfect till all are so : 

a. Therefore goodness implies modesty. 

II. False and True Good : 

a. The one law of Love, and its petty, changing 
codes : 

1. True good of changing harmonious rela- 
tion. 

2. False good of outworn custom and rule. 

III. The Meaning of Self-expression : 

a. The small and large Self : 

1. The whole world is the whole of me. 

2. Serve, not others only, but others as part 
of yourself. 

b. Self-sacrifice: 

I. Giving up one thing for a greater thing. 



296 Appendix 

2. Happiness is whatever we want most. 

3. If completeness is the aim of life, then all 
lesser happiness is sacrificed to it. 

4. If life is a drama, a whole, we give up our 
selfish satisfaction to see that whole self 
satisfied. 

c. Creation is Self-expression, is endless, higher 
rebirth : 

1. All action reveals the actor. 

2. Life is a drama, in which we feel ourselves 
to have equal prominence with others, and 
conscious power of control: 

a.We cannot help having influence. 
fi. Let us shape our influence for the 
whole. 



THIRTEENTH MEETING 

Self-fulfilment Through Overcoming Limitations 

I. Envy, Its Narrowness and Blindness: 

a. Every man serves me who does for me what I 
cannot do for myself: 

1. Each one fills out my shortcomings. 

b. Use, instead of coveting. 

II. Self-regulation in Despite of Self: 

a. The moral sense of beauty, an intellectual sense 
of completeness, makes us regulate and suppress 
our desires: 



Appendix 297 

1. Hence we make laws which are substitutes 
for understanding love. 

b. The substitutes necessary until love conquers, 
are: 

1. Justice. 

2. Honesty. 

3. Duty. 

4. Binding by promise. 

5. Obedience. 

c. Conventions, their changes and their conven- 
ience. 

III. Some Virtues Changed by Love's Demands : 

a. Revenge, the first expression of Loyalty: 

1. Our admiration for such expression in its 
own early time. 

b. Pity, the developer of Feeling: 

1. Degenerates into Weakness and Imoo- 
tence. 

2. Is an Insult: 

a. A strong man does not pity himself. 
Should not pity other strong selves. 

3. Strong Sympathy, and our common Work- 
ing for the great Happiness, should replace 
pity. 

c. Reverence for special people, with Fear: 

1. Self-reverence means reverence for all 
selves. 

2. Reverence the old — and the young, too. 

3. The reverenoe with love replaces the rev- 
erence with fear. 



298 Appendix 

FOURTEENTH MEETING 

Loyalty, and Conscious Allegiance to 01m Individual 

Aspiration 

I. Patriotism; its Meaning: 

a. We are children of all we can love and serve : 

1. The growth of loyalty, from the family 
to the world : 
a. War as a fighting for peace. 

b. Patriotism in its growth, like all progress, must 
include the small in the large, though in seem- 
ing disloyalty: 

1. Disloyalty to one's country cannot be loy- 
alty to the world. 

2. But wholesome criticism often seems dis- 
loyal : 

a The loyalty of revolutionists, 

II. Conscious Choice in Self-development: 

a. Know what you want most to be. 

b. Eliminate whatever interferes with your choice; 
make life a work of art, not a haphazard photo- 
graph. 

1. Concentration. 

2. Choose and subordinate your studies for 
their worth to you. 

3. Prefer friends to acquaintances. 



Appendix 299 

4. Do the work at hand (charity at home), 
and be sure your service harmonizes with 
your knowledge and your whole life. 

5. Never degrade the end by making an end 
out of the means. (Business, athletics, 
study, must always be means.) 

c. Dare to desire the utmost, unflinchingly: 

1. Greatness comes from persistent desire 
rather than from inborn skill. 

d. Youth and old age : 

1. Desire and service can continue through- 
out life. 

III. Variety and Rhythm: 

a. Varied life with single Aim : 

1. Concentrate on one thing at a time, but not 
on one thing all the time. 

2. The meaning and worth of Knowledge. 

3. Never be bored, or bore: 

a. Sense of humor; and use of silence. 

4. Work and play, exertion and rest, must 
harmonize : 

a. Even your pleasures will reflect your 
character, or taste. 

b. Be a rhythm, a measure, a force like music in 
the life all about you. 

[Note. — The fifteenth meeting was spent on Chris- 
tian Science, and is therefore omitted from 
the notes.] 



30O Appendix 

SIXTEENTH MEETING 

Social Relations 

I. The Avoidance of Bitter Partisanship: 

a. Take sides, not with persons, but with causes* 

b. Use all. Be for all, and against none. 

II. Social Sympathy: 

a. Humanity as a vast Self : 

1. Democracy means we have all the right to 
be equal: 

a. Faith and reverence for self in all. 

A Service is larger self-service. 

y. Each does his part; hand and head. 

2. To keep well, to be satisfied, we must care 
for the sick and miserable : 

a. Starvation. 
/?• Old age. 
y. Contagion. 
#. To care for the weak strengthens the strong: 
i. To destroy the weak is dangerous loss. 
(Rome and Sparta.) 

c. In passing judgment on crimes, hate not per- 
sons but their acts : 

i. Each acts according to his desire or needs. 
2. Punishment as preventive and cure. 

III. Truth in Personal Relations: 

a. Truth-telling not the whole of Truth : 

1. Malicious truth-telling is not truth. 

2. Worth of kind, true criticism and praise. 



Appendix 301 

b. Our judgments of people judge us: 

1. Our limited understanding. 

2. Say: "I am one who hates, or loves," etc. 

c. Whom shall we please, and how? 

1. The morality of good manners. 

2. Vanity, the pretended worth; and true 
worth or loveableness. 

3. "Prettiness" in manner, pleasing those who 
cannot understand us. 

4. Social frivolity, overdress and luxury, and 
its result of friendship. 

a. Show is for those wc do not love. ( Re-^ 
sembles "costly material" in art.) 

[IV. Women and Work: 

a. The true preparation for marriage. 

b. Social life and service. 

c. Knowledge as mere show; or as power.] 



SEVENTEENTH MEETING 

Aloofness and Creation 

I. Seeing Life as a Spectator, from God's Point 
of View : 
a. The collective personality: 

1. Psychological fact: We are often outside 
ourselves in tense moments. 

2. Getting far away from oneself in self-criti- 
cism and judgment. 



302 Appendix 

3. Our reasonableness in crises. 

4. All heroism is self-forgetfulness for the 
sake of the whole. 

II. Result in Action and Creative Living: 

a. Partnership with whole, or God: 

1. We can see and use our personal life as 
part of whole. 

2. We can get above our own sorrow and 
pain, and use them. 

b. This aloofness from self, or being the One, is 
the root of all morals: 

1 . Some know this, and make laws ; the others 
are forced to obey. 

c. Aloofness is collective experience, or memory, 
whence we grow toward the good. We live in 
all time and space. 

III. Personal Result of Our Club's Work: 

a. Drawing judgment from the whole. 

b. Drawing strength from the whole. 

c. Training our lesser desires to serve the whole 
aim and desire of our life. 

d. How shall we attain to fulfilment in our per- 
sonal life? 

I. Money, health, power, etc., as certificates 
of creative value, to be used for new 
creation. 



JAN 16 1911 



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